Smoke and Bullets
by harlequindreaming
Summary: You don't always choose who you fall in love with; you take what you get and it's enough. But between Gameboys and gunshots, chocolate and cinders, Mihael Keehl and Mail Jeevas find that sometimes, it isn't. Not for people like them. [INDEFINITELY ON HIATUS]
1. Prologue

_A/N This is my first Mello/Matt fanfic! I'm not entirely sure if I'll write more than one (though I might put up a one-shot or two… hehe); it'll all depend on how well this one goes. Written after watching Death Note for the first time (how could I have gone this long without watching it, how?) and reading excessive MM fanfiction. Also being written at the same time as two Dramione fanfics, so don't expect particularly frequent updates. My apologies in advance._

_This is just the prologue. The story begins in the next chapter, in the Wammy's days, and works its way up to the end of their stories. Characters may appear slightly OoC and I might change some things about the story, but it's mostly canon. I'll be using official anime/manga characteristics as well._

_Blanket disclaimer: I own nothing of Death Note, nor any of the books, songs, places, etc. that will be used in this fic. I own only the plot, and randomly inserted OCs (own characters)._

_Enjoy! Constructive criticism, very welcome!_

**xxxxx**

The sun was setting in San Diego, California. The dying light bathed the apartment in an orange glow, making the clutter seem more romantic than it usually did. In the midst of a sea of empty cigarette packets, half-smoked cigarette butts, Chinese takeout cartons and massive amounts of technology, squatted a pea-green, patched-up couch. It listed to one side slightly; one of the legs was missing, the space filled by a book that didn't _quite _come to the same height as the leg it was replacing. There was a small table a little way off, and a counter in what served as a kitchen (upon which sat a beat-up microwave and a micro refrigerator), but the couch was easily the biggest piece of furniture in the room. And the most worn.

Upon the couch, lazily tapping away at a slightly cracked Gameboy color, was a lanky boy of no more than 20. The cigarette pinned in the corner of his mouth was shedding ash onto his red-and-black striped shirt, having long been forgotten in the quest to be the very best that no one ever was. Little beeps emitted from the portable console and the corner of those thin lips quirked up in a smirk. A lock of brown hair slipped over orange goggles, but the boy did not even pause the game, choosing instead to try and blow around the cigarette, hoping the air would propel the offending strands away. No such luck. In the end, he just gave up, and let the thin strands tickle his nose. They wouldn't bother him much, anyway.

By now the sun was almost completely set; the brightest light in the apartment was coming from the Gameboy. Shifting to one-handed play, the boy fumbled around on the floor, searching for something vaguely solid and weighty. Hand closing upon something satisfactory, he hurled it in the general direction of the light switch. Some days this worked, some days it didn't. Today wasn't one of the lucky days. The boy frowned but made no move to get up and turn the light on himself. He'd do it when his eyes hurt too much.

Suddenly, the shrill ring of a cellphone interrupted the peaceful background noise of city traffic and gaming beeps. The boy frowned, irritated at the interrupted game, and looked up, blinking into the darkness of the room. "Damn it," he muttered around the cigarette. He snatched it from between his lips and ground it out on the couch, something he'd done time and again, leaving little scorch marks on the cheap fabric. Reaching down and fumbling through the mess of the floor once more, he found the offending piece of technology tucked inside one of the more recently discarded takeout cartons. The number flashing on the display was international and unknown. Frown deepening, he flipped the phone open, set it on loudspeaker, and resumed his game.

For a moment there was silence, then the faint sounds of sirens and crashing debris filtered through. Then a hoarse, hacking cough. None of it registered with the gamer boy, however, until a voice came faintly down the line. A voice the boy knew all too well. He'd heard it enough times in his dreams.

"…Matt…"

In that instant, Matt (for indeed it was he) flicked off the console in his hands, all attention going to the small phone on the floor in front of him. That couldn't be- no-

_Mello._

"I'm hoping you haven't changed your number." A dry laugh, another round of coughing. The voice was ragged, interlaced with pants and hisses. "Guess I should have called – sooner." A moan. Then a small retching noise. "God, explosions hurt like a _bitch…"_

The rest of the call was lost on Matt. As soon as he heard the word "explosion" he snapped out of the trance he'd been in, grabbing the nearest laptop, starting up programs and patches that would track the source of the call. In mere seconds he'd triangulated the location –and almost laughed. The number may have been international, but the location was very much local. So close.

"…hey buddy, say something…" The voice continued to croak out of the speakers, but Matt was only half-listening as he scrabbled through the mess for his keys. God he should have kept the apartment more organized. "…or don't. God knows you're probably pissed as hell at me now. Don't even know why you" –coughing fit to burst- "picked up." Shallow breaths. Little chuckle. "…but hey, I'm glad you did." A choked scream followed by a hiss. "I just- well, I guess you ought to know…"

Finally finding the stupid bits of metal in a tangle of wires, he shrugged on a vest, shoving a pack of cigarettes and a lighter into the ass pocket of his jeans. One more glance at the computer to make sure the coordinates were correct, then he was out the door before the rest of the message finished. The click of its closing echoed through the empty apartment.

"You ought to know" –a burst of static and another coughing fit- "that it took a Goddamn explosion to make me realize I fucking love you, Matt Jeevas."


	2. Matt

_A/N Wow, this fic actually got attention! Haha. I have to admit, I'm a bit surprised… but happy, too._

_Pre-Wammy Days, now. A double __**-xxxxx- **__indicates a shift in POV, which will alternate between Matt and Mello. A single one just means a story break (a skip in time, a cutoff, but the POV will remain the same). This chapter, though, is purely Matt, and the next one is purely Mello. Then afterward, both._

_I can't find a timeline for their arrivals at the orphanage, so I just made things up._

**-xxxxx-**

Fire.

There's fire everywhere, red and orange and yellow and even _blue _–and Mail Jeevas has never known fire to be blue. But it's there, right at the tips, a thin bright blue and Mail shrinks away from it, away from all the fire, but there's nowhere to go. It's all around him, eating at his home. Eating at his precious possessions; the small brown teddy bear named Cloud, the Legend of Zelda sword and shield, the books. The books. The fire eats the curtains of his playroom and he wants to scream but can't find a voice.

The door, apparently, can.

It crashes open, bellowing harshly at him, but it's okay, it's okay, because standing there is his father, a stupid pair of orange swim goggles glued to his eyes so the smoke won't sting them. But Mail doesn't know that. He only knows that his father looks like a dork, in his purple striped pajamas and goggles. _You can't swim in fire, Daddy, _he wants to say, but again, the words don't come out. They don't have to, anyway, since now his father is bundling him up in those big strong arms and murmuring in his ear, _you're safe now, Mail. I've got you._

They hurtle out of the playroom, down the corridor. Mail feels his father's heartbeat, feels it speed up and up and up, and hears his own throbbing in his ears. It's all so hot, so hot; much too hot for December. The fire reaches out long, flickering arms, trying to tear him and his father apart. He clings tighter to that reassuring if sweaty neck. The ceiling crashes down around them. His father spits something out from between his teeth –_fuckfuckfuck - _and Mail clings to the point of asphyxiation. But the door is almost there. It's almost there. Just a little more-

A long, shrill, world-shattering scream comes from somewhere to their left and Mail's father's eyes go wide and he stumbles. Mail is jarred loose from the sanctuary of those arms for a brief second but he doesn't notice because all he thinks of is _Mama, Mama, Mama. _Mama up there in that pretty green dress she wore for the party earlier that evening, the one that matched her eyes; the green turning to ash from all the red and orange and blue. Mama. Suddenly, he realizes he has found his voice and he is screaming. _Mama!_

Mail's father hesitates a second, then yanks the stupid orange goggles off his head and jams them over Mail's. They're a little too big but it's better than nothing. Mail finds himself completely out of the sanctuary, staring once more at all the warm colors. His father shoves him towards the door. _Run, Mail, _he's saying, but all Mail hears is his mother's scream still ringing in his ears. One more shove and he bolts on instinct. It's not until he's outside the door and safely ensconced in snow (it was snowing?) that he realizes his father did not come, did not follow. That he can no longer hear his mother's screams.

The neighbors have gathered outside, pointing and shrieking about the huge flames. The fire leaps and dances into the sky as if trying to unite their fire with that of the stars. Sirens break through the air, and Mail can hear around him the whispers, the statements, _what took them so long? _And, _those poor people. _And, _is that the boy? _Yes, yes it is the boy, and he can only watch as his home crashes down in front of him.

Mama, Papa. Where are they?

The world is so orange. Tinted with the color of fire.

**-xxxxx-**

It takes all night before the fire is completely put out. Mail sits in what's left of the snow and stares at the charred ruins. Everything's black and smoking and where are Mama and Papa? He asks this of a passing fireman, who jumps. No one's heard the boy speak since he came out of the burning house. No one's had the heart to tell him his Mama and Papa are gone, long gone.

Mail is smart, though. He's already figured that out. He just needs to hear it because his intelligent brain rejects the idea, doesn't want to accept it until someone else writes it down in stone.

Writes down that Mail Jeevas is now an orphan.

He sits there in the snow for hours, seemingly oblivious to human needs like peeing and eating. He watches the firemen clear out the rubble, bring out what salvageable items they find. He watches as they carry out the ruined bodies of his parents, lay them out on the snow, wrap them in white sheets –except to him, they're not white, they're orange. His parents are still tinted with fire.

He won't take the goggles off. One of the firemen attempts to gently pry them from his eyes, saying he needs to be checked, and the quiet boy sitting in the snow erupts into feral rage. He claws, screams, wrestles and bites. Not the goggles. They're all he has left. Don't take his father away. Papa, Mama. Not the goggles. Not Papa's goggles.

The firemen draw away. They're paid to put out fires, clear out debris, not handle hysterical six-year-olds.

Mail thrashes around in the snow until exhaustion and hunger and panic drive him to unconsciousness.

**-xxxxx-**

The insurance pays for the poorly-attended funeral and nothing else.

The orphanage comes for Mail an hour after the ground over the graves is tamped down.

**-xxxxx-**

Mail has been in the orphanage for all of three months. It's cold, he shares a room with six other moronic boys, there's never enough food, and the only thing Mail has learned is that even six-year-olds can be suicidal. No –seven. He is seven years old now. Seven years, and all he received on his birthday was a red rosary and a stale cupcake. The nuns weren't big on material goods, but which nuns are?

The beads click annoyingly against his skin. The Mother Superior made him wear the rosary around his neck, saying it is a sign of his gratitude toward God for saving his life from the flames. Hence the red.

It's not like it really matters, anyway. The color, that is. Mail's whole world is tinted in a soft yellow-orange glow from the goggles he wears around his head. The color of quiet fire. Mail can't stand being around it. He shies away even from the candles in the mass; the nuns have tried and failed to make him a _sacristan. _He only tolerates the fire-colored world because the goggles are what his father left him with. The goggles are all he has left.

He's wrong about only learning about feeling suicidal. He's also learned about debt, and how it can cruelly leave a seven-year-old with absolutely nothing. Not even a penny to his name, to inherit when he turns 18. He's learned how gambling and drinking tend to bury people deeper and deeper into debt, and how dying doesn't always bring you out of it. He overheard one of the nuns commenting on how it was a miracle they didn't sell off the goggles and even the boy as well, to pay off the debts. He wonders what boy they're talking about. It doesn't occur to him that they mean Mail Jeevas.

The tests are a distraction. They're easy to devote to, since they're very straightforward. The nuns aren't into subjective essays, so there is always only ever one answer. All you have to do is remember that answer and you can't go wrong. It's all so very safe. So Mail buries himself into tests, into books, into schoolwork. Into every subject except that stupid religion, because hell, where was this _God _when Mail's house burned down? _The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. _Things had been taken away. What had he been given?

So Mail shuns religion but excels in everything else. His scores climb steadily until he becomes the top notcher in the orphanage, and by a long shot –you didn't pick many smart kids off the street. He doesn't socialize, doesn't feel the need to, because the other kids always tease him about his goggles and his scores. They quickly find a brand for him: _nerd._ Nerds were apparently bad things, and so Mail keeps his distance. Books look better tinged with fire than people, anyway.

They also tease him about his name. Mail, Mail, _here comes the mail!, _and _let's check the mail, _which is code for hide-Mail's-books-and-take-his-pants. He's constantly shoved out of bed and most of his belongings go missing and once the boys shave off his eyebrows in his sleep.

After six months Mail invokes the ire of one of the nuns by questioning the presence of God in their lives. It stuns everyone, including Mail, because he's never spoken aloud in class before. He rarely speaks at all. The nun's expression goes from incredulous to furious and she drags Mail into the corridor for a good hiding. That one of the annexed church's priests witnesses. Taking Mail aside, the old priest inquires for his name and age, and smiles at the answer. He asks Mail if he wants to have a good life, a better life in the future. Unsure of where any of this is going, Mail only nods. The priest pats him on the shoulder and tells Mail to come again to this office tomorrow afternoon, after class. Ask the nuns for Father Silva if he gets lost. Mail nods again. Then the priest does something odd and leans down and kisses Mail's bruised cheek. Mail doesn't know what to make of it, and simply leaves when he is dismissed.

The next day he arrives at the priest's door and knocks. Once inside, he is informed that he is incredibly brilliant, a brilliant young boy. His IQ is apparently 175, and this is apparently a great thing. The priest draws him close.

"With a mind like yours, you should be out there being educated," he says, crinkled eyes looking down at orange goggles. "I'll get you places, my boy. But you must do as I wish."

Mail nods.

The priest reaches out and strokes the bruise that has formed on Mail's cheek. "Such a beautiful, brilliant boy," he whispers. The touch is familiar but Mail, with his brilliant mind, registers under it a different tone from that of his mother's, when she would touch him. But he leans into the familiarity because it is just that –familiar. And it was the priest's wish, wasn't it?

Yes, yes it was. The wish of obedience and silence.

**-xxxxx-**

It's a week before Mail can sit down properly. The nuns don't ask why Mail always hovers slightly over the seat at his desk. Nobody questions the small red spots.

The rosary is gone from his neck.

Mail maintains his position as top student.

**-xxxxx-**

After a year and a half, a strange mustached man appears at the orphanage asking after a Mail Jeevas. At first, because he is old and white-haired and he calls Mail brilliant, Mail shies away. But when he learns that this man does not want him on his knees, that this man wants to take him away, he complies with his wishes without hesitation.

"Go and pack. We will leave only when you are ready." The man smiles down warmly and that is comforting. Comforting enough for Mail to speak.

"I have everything I need," he whispers. And indeed he does. Clothes and his goggles. He's never cared for anything else. The man nods and takes Mail's hand. No one has done that since Mail's mother was alive.

Before they completely clear it out of the orphanage, one of the nuns runs after them. She slings the rosary around Mail's neck. They burn his skin, the red beads, but the nun looks so pleased and the man pleasantly curious, that Mail only says _thank you, _and turns away. The man leads him out into the real world. A world tinged with fire.

**-xxxxx-**

The day of his arrival at Wammy's House for Gifted Children, Mail is escorted into a small study. It's plain for something located in so grand a building. Mail glimpses the sprawling grounds and gray skies outside the room's only window. There are two couches and a table laden with sweets and a painting of horses and a man, sitting in a strange manner, devouring a strawberry cake. He has a mop of unruly black hair, and large eyes ringed in shadow. Mail shivers at the sight of him.

"Sit," the man says, and Mail obeys.

"Cake?" he asks, and Mail shakes his head.

"I am L," he states, and Mail blinks. What kind of person is named after a letter in the alphabet?

"Tell me, Mail," L says, swirling a strawberry in some chocolate sauce and devouring it in one bite, "have you ever wished to become a detective?"

Mail frowns and speaks for the first time. "No."

"I see." L eats another strawberry. Mail eyes his actions with distaste. L holds things funny and sits in a weird way and his eyes are so large and unblinking. Though Mail does like sweet things; just not as much as L seems to.

"From this day forth," L says, and Mail's attention is drawn from a large apple pie to the man's shock of hair, "you are no longer Mail Jeevas. That identity is no longer necessary for your survival. You shall be called Matt. Under no circumstances are you to reveal your true name to anyone." Down goes another strawberry. "In fact, I highly recommend you forget it entirely."

Matt? Mail frowns and tries it out in his head. Matt, Matt, Matt. It's a safe name, a boring one. But if it's what he needs to stay here, then it will do. At least he wouldn't be bullied for it.

"You may go," says L, and Mail –no, _Matt_ gets up and leaves the room. He closes the door and, at eight years old, feels the ominous sense of closing the door on Mail Jeevas forever.

Roger is waiting outside, to take him to his new room. It has clothes and books and school supplies inside it; everything Matt will need to live in this house. There is also a small handheld gaming system. A Gameboy.

"A welcome present from L," Roger says as he leaves Matt to his own devices.

Through the yellow tint of the goggles, Matt surveys the room. A bed, a desk, a dresser. A bathroom all to himself. He starts up the Gameboy and loads the game in the already-inserted cartridge. And is utterly delighted to discover that there is a world, an actual existing world, that is not tinged with fire.

**-xxxxx-**

_A/N Was there too much going on in this chapter? I'm sorry if I went a little overboard. There's just so little known about Matt, so there's so much room for imagination in his history. I apologize if I offended anyone with the way I treated Matt's time at the Catholic orphanage._

_Reviews will be greatly appreciated, please and thank you!_


	3. Mello

_A/N Thank you to everyone who reviewed! Let's keep this fanfic rolling while I'm still reading all this Matt/Mello fanfic, haha. This chapter is all about Mello and how he gets to Wammy's house. Then after this, the pairing kicks off._

_A lot of stories project Mello as Catholic (probably due to the rosary) and as the son of a Mafia boss (hence his connections in the future). I'm going to shun both these angles, mostly because I've never really liked them. I love Mello's character; love how he's so driven by his inferiority complex, how he's addicted to chocolate. So I'm going to try for something different. I hope you guys like it._

**-xxxxx-**

Even at seven years old, Mihael Keehl feels like nothing he ever does is good enough.

Oh, he can play football well enough to be captain of the kids' squad, and his grades are immaculate, and his martial arts skills are improving by the day. He can play Mozart and Beethoven on the piano, and read books beyond those recommended for his age. His vocabulary is highly sophisticated. He has an IQ of 164. He is a genius.

But so is his brother.

Fifteen-year-old Benedikt has already played football _and _tennis internationally. He's graduated grade school as class valedictorian. He wears red belts in three different martial arts disciplines, and is steadily working his way to black. He plays overtures on the violin, looking dapper in his suits, the spotlights of the concert halls illuminating his glory. He reads Kafka and Dostoevsky. He is a student leader. His IQ is lower than Mihael's, true, but he makes up for that gap in achievements.

Mihael _hates _his brother.

Mihael hates Benedikt's tousled, dark blonde hair and hypnotic, gold-flecked, emerald eyes that have garnered him a fan club. While the girls in Berlin squeal over Benedikt's lean physique, haughty stature and loping gait, Mihael has to spend his days defending his masculinity. With his long, dirty-blonde hair, ice blue eyes and feminine body, Mihael is often mistaken for a girl. But his stupid mother won't have it cut because she thinks it makes him look like an _angel, _like the angel he was named after. The archangel Michael.

Mihael _hates _angels.

There isn't much he doesn't hate, actually. He hates his teachers for pointing out all the mistakes in his papers, for encircling the errors in bold red pen. He hates the kids at his school for calling him a girl, for teasing him about his study habits, for ostracizing him because of his temper. He hates the principal for shaking his head every time Mihael ends up in his office, often with a black eye or a bruised cheek or bloody knuckles, the latest victim already in the school's clinic. He hates how his official label is that of a juvenile delinquent who easily snaps and gives in to his temper. But most of all, he hates himself.

Because nothing he ever does is good enough.

Especially not for his father.

Viktor Keehl is a man of standards. How else could he have raised such genius children? He has pushed them to excel in everything they do, because failure to bring home anything less than excellence means a belt to the backside and no dinner for a week. Years as a soldier, then as chief of guards, have made him that way. He wants the best _for _his boys and _of _his boys.

Viktor Keehl is Mihael's hero.

Ever since that day when he'd been four and he'd fallen out of a tree and into his father's arms, Mihael has set his sights on impressing his father. He hungers for the approval of the man who'd saved his life. He yearns to be just like the man who had so coolly stepped under the branches and extended his arms to neatly catch the falling boy before he hit the ground. The man who laid his life down for country and family time and again. Who radiates indubitable authority and intelligence.

Who only seems to see Benedikt.

There have been so many days when Mihael returns home, excitedly waving the perfect test scores in the air, only to find his father already clapping Benedikt on the back, congratulating him for topping a standardized national examination. When Mihael smashes through a plank of wood with a perfectly nailed kick, but Benedikt has crushed hollow blocks with his fists. When Mihael finally, _finally, _manages to play Mozart's _Minuet _without mistakes, just when Benedikt is about to leave for his next recital. And Mihael's infamy has rendered any hopes of student council useless. Benedikt has represented his school, the city, and once even the country, in debates and conferences local, national and international. He is student council vice president.

In Mihael's eyes, Benedikt is perfection to their father. Mihael is only second rate, second best.

And if he is only second best, he might as well be nothing.

Oh, truth be told, there are the times when Viktor will smile down at young, ambitious Mihael and ruffle his hair and call him _my son, _and these are moments Mihael locks in his heart, revisiting again and again until he has dulled the sheen of pride on them. Times when Viktor picks Mihael up and spins him around, when he gently tucks his son into bed after finding him passed out on his notebooks or his projects. But these times are not enough to outweigh the favoritism Viktor has for his elder son. They are not enough to take away the sting from when Viktor brushes Mihael aside to praise Benedikt.

And so Mihael only tries harder.

Eva Keehl has tried time and again to console young Mihael, tried to convince him that he is _not _nothing in the eyes of his father. She hangs his certificates up on the wall, right next to Benedikt's. She displays his trophies in the same cabinet. She cooks his favorite food when he brings home perfect scores. She brings him to his piano lessons every day. But Eva's words and actions mean nothing to Mihael, because it is not her smile he is trying to win. It is not her hand he wants on his shoulder. His mother spoils him to death and the most gratitude he sends her way is a smile and a nod because in the end, she is not his father.

And so Eva Keehl stands by and watches her son wear himself out trying to be a man she knows he cannot be. Watches Mihael try to surpass Benedikt in every way, in _any _way, and she tries to find the words to tell him _he is not Benedikt _but nothing reaches him. He does not understand that there are many kinds of genius, that he is a fish judging himself by his ability to climb a tree. He does not understand that there is no single way to gain Viktor's approval. And Eva is saddened because she cannot find a way to make him understand.

She never does.

**-xxxxx-**

Eight-year-old Mihael Keehl wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of his father's mobile phone ringing in the next room. He hugs his knees and pulls the blanket tighter as he hears Viktor explain to Eva that the station wants him to come over and handle a particularly difficult situation. The sound of the door closing sends a jolt of pride through Mihael. His father is so strong and responsible. His father is the best person Mihael knows.

His father does not come back.

**-xxxxx-**

There are two new things for Mihael to hate in the world.

The first is death.

The second is his father.

Mihael Keehl dedicated the whole of his young life to getting his father to acknowledge his achievements, even just once. Viktor Keehl died before that happened.

Viktor died leaving Benedikt _still _the better son.

Oh, how Mihael _hates _that.

**-xxxxx-**

The week after Viktor's military funeral, Eva leaves the house and comes back with her hair a mess and a strange smile plastered on her face and a bar of chocolate. She gives Mihael the bar, pats him on the head, and enters her room.

And never comes out.

For a year, Mihael dutifully brings her food when he leaves for school, when he comes home, and when he is about to eat dinner. For a year, he sees that strange smile on his mother's face, hears her mindless giggles and remarks, watches her converse with and kiss a strange facsimile of his father, constructed out of pillows and his wedding suit. For a year he lives with an Eva Keehl crumpled on her marital bed in her wedding dress, no longer able to separate reality from visions.

But Mihael cannot bring himself to hate her.

But it's all right, he doesn't have to. Benedikt hates her enough for both of them.

Which makes Mihael hate him all the more.

**-xxxxx-**

On December 13, Mihael turns nine. He receives a vomiting mother, a brusque greeting from his brother, a failing mark on his history test and a punch in the face from Russian exchange student Vladimir Kuznetsov. He accepts everything except the punch, which he gladly returns threefold. The fight ends in Vladimir gaining a broken nose and Mihael two black eyes and a broken finger. Thankfully, something good happens that day and it is Vladimir who is sent to the principal and Mihael to the nurse's office. After patching his injuries, she checks his file and discovers today is his birthday. Out of compassion she gives Mihael a chocolate bar. It is the first gift he has received in a year.

It is also the first food he's had in three days.

The insurance money from his father was halved the day Eva came home with a strange smile. Mihael has tried to make it last for as long as possible, but it has dwindled down to almost nothing. His mother has no job, and while Benedikt grudgingly contributes a few hundred euro every now and then, the few times he's home, it isn't enough. Mihael knows he will have to find a scholarship if he wants to stay in school. If he lives that long. Starvation _can _kill.

The nurse, whose name is Beatrix, watches in shock and pity as the small blonde boy sitting on the clinic cot wolfs down the chocolate bar like he hasn't eaten in weeks. She feels the tears welling up as she takes in his painfully thin frame; the hand she'd patched up had been shaking, and now she is willing to bet her salary that it wasn't all from the pain. She knows this child, has patched up his victims enough times in the past. It's hard to believe this is the boy who once broke brawny Karl Steinbeck's arm.

She hands him another chocolate bar, which he eats just as quickly as the first.

Once he leaves, she studies his file again. Mihael Keehl, age nine, father dead in a shootout. IQ 164. She takes it all in and realizes he does not belong in a place like this.

Mihael Keehl closes the door to the school clinic, his bandaged hand clutching the third chocolate bar he's received from the nurse. He's never known chocolate to taste so good, but _gottverdammt, _now it's addicting.

He steals a bar from a nearby store on the way home.

**-xxxxx-**

A week after his ninth birthday, Mihael walks into his mother's room to find a half-empty pouch of fine white powder, a small pool of vomit, and a dead Eva. He does not scream, only stares at her prone, unmoving figure, the ski-jump nose dotted with the white from the pouch. He sits on the floor and stares and stares as his genius mind tries to comprehend that the only person who thought he was good enough was now gone.

Benedikt does not come home.

**-xxxxx-**

It is three days later when Nurse Beatrix shows up at his home, worried at his absence and bringing word of a boarding school in England that houses people as smart as Mihael. She knows immediately by the smell that something is wrong, and luckily Mihael left the front door unlocked. She finds him in his mother's room, still sitting, still staring at his dead mother. Her shriek of horror does not rouse him, but her grasp does. It compels him to utter the first words she has ever heard him speak.

"She is dead," he says, simply. His ice blue eyes hold no tears.

Beatrix finds she is unable to think of anything except _it's lucky that boarding school I found has a partner orphanage._

Benedikt still has not come home.

**-xxxxx-**

A week later, Mihael finds himself in front of Wammy's House, holding the hand of a man he only knows as L. Behind them is an old man with a funny mustache, whose name he now knows is Watari. Mihael knows L would rather it be Watari's hand he held, but it was L who came to get him from Beatrix Engel's small apartment. It was L who looked at him with those large, tired eyes and asked if he, Mihael Keehl, wanted a better life. So Mihael holds onto L the same way he held onto Viktor all those years ago, after he had fallen from a tree.

Somehow, he knows that when he steps into that house, everything will change.

L sits Mihael down in a couch. He passes around the table laden with all kinds of sweets, crouches on the couch opposite, and speaks.

Mihael now knows that no one knows where Benedikt is.

He knows that he is now Mello, and that he must forget about being Mihael Keehl.

He knows that he will live and study here from now on, that he will never go back to Germany, ever again.

And, as L wordlessly hands him a thin chocolate bar, Mihael –no, _Mello _knows he has found his new hero.

As he holds the chocolate bar in his thin fingers, Mello swears he will be enough for this wild-looking man who is his savior. He will be the best for L.

**-xxxxx-**

_A/N Naming character is so much fun!_

_So… did any of that make sense? The inferiority complex, the chocolate, the plot? My research shows Keehl is possibly either English or German (well, Slavic) in origin… so I went with German._

_The tone and flow are different from Matt's story, I know._

_The "fish judging itself by its ability to climb a tree" is derived from a quote attributed to Einstein. Gottverdammt is "goddamnit" in German. I hope I spelled it right.  
><em>

_R&R?_


	4. First Encounters

_A/N Again, a double **-xxxxx- **indicates a shift in POV._

_Thanks for the reviews!_

**-xxxxx-**

I yank off my goggles in frustration and push my tongue between my slightly crooked front teeth, fingers mashing at the buttons of the Gameboy more and more furiously. I don't _want _to battle this stupid-ass trainer, no. All I did was take a few steps. But now I'm locked in a heated battle with a motherfucking _water _trainer, and my Charmeleon is _losing._

A small tapping noise ventures into the room, but it doesn't even register; I'm too desperate to try and keep my fire Pokémon alive. The rat-tat-tat starts out small, but I'm too involved in this (much as I hate to admit it) doomed battle, and soon it gets more impatient, more intense. Finally, when it's just short of all-out banging, I lose, blink and look up.

_What the hell? _I look around the room, slightly dazed. _What the fuck is that? _There's nothing at the window, I hadn't left my computer on, and I'm damn sure nothing in the Pokémon world makes _that _much noise. My eyes go from the desk to the threadbare carpet to my closet to the door…

The door.

Someone is definitely hammering on the door.

Reluctantly, I put the Gameboy on standby and stand, rolling the kinks out of my shoulders and stretching them out of my back. It's a Friday and as usual, I'm not attending my morning classes. They bore my, anyway; I've never really cared about biomes and Shakespeare and the Pythagorean Theorem. Sure, they'd been a good distraction back in the old orphanage, but now that I've got my games, I really can't give less of a shit.

Man, the banging on the door's getting pretty violent.

This is strange. The only person who ever bothers with me is Roger, though he never hammers so rudely. Did I leave the common room TV running in the middle of the night again? Nope, pretty sure I turned it off when I went to bed last night at the ungodly hour of two am. Did he catch me bypassing the network firewall? Not likely; I covered my tracks to the best of my (limited) abilities. Am I getting another lecture on truancy? But this is a bit harsh. And besides, it's not like I'm _failing _or anything. The teachers have long since accepted that despite the lack of my presence in class (physical, mental or both), I'm second and I'm staying there.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

"All right, all right." I shuffle toward the door, goggles clicking around my neck. "Jesus."

BANG. BANG. BA-

That last one cuts short as I swing the door open, preparing to sullenly glare at the small man I expect to see on the other side. The curt "what" is poised to fall from my lips. Every ounce of surliness drains, though, when I see the boy standing in my doorway, arm raised, hand curled into a fist. A boy with bright yellow hair and blue, blue eyes, standing in a halo of noontime sun.

A boy on fire.

Blue. Fire had never been blue until that night. And yet here is a boy with fire in his eyes, ice blue like the tips of those deathly flames, and oh god, oh god, there's fire even in his hair and his skin. I don't give a damn if it's ridiculous to still be scared, this long after that night. I don't change very quickly. And without the quiet safety of his goggles this boy blazes tall and thin, the heat of those eyes turned full force onto mine. So I react in the only way I know how.

I turn and bolt.

The door slams shut behind me as I race to my bed and once again, someone's calling my name, but it's the wrong name and it's calling me back, not telling me to run. But I'm under the covers, curling into a call but there's no snow and no smoke and no heat, yes, but there's a boy made of fire standing in my doorway and where, where are my goggles?

Goggles. Papa. Mama.

Balling up smaller, I try to think of happy thoughts.

**-xxxxx-**  
><strong>-xxxxx-<strong>

Well needless to say, I'm completely baffled.

Sure, I've scared kids before. Back at my old school the others would cower in terror, sometimes even scamper away, as I walked by. But _they_ knew of my violent tendencies and volatile temper. Never have I scared someone this badly just by _standing _there.

But here I am, watching my temporary roommate _shiver _under the covers.

It can't have been the banging that scared him. Sure, I was practically bashing his door in by the end of it, but only because he wasn't answering and Roger swore he'd be in his room –something about his never attending Friday classes? This guy was gonna be my roommate until my actual room across the hall gets fixed. I spent the whole way over wondering what kind of guy this Matt was if he missed class so much.

I'd barely gotten a glimpse of the boy –Matt- and his eyes before they'd gone wide and his mop of auburn hair had all but disappeared into the sheets. I'd managed to catch the door before it shut completely (no mean feat, mind you), so now I'm standing on the threadbare carpeting, blinking curiously at this shaking lump of bedding.

_Congratulations, _I tell myself. _First day here and you've already scared the kid shitless. _For some reason, though, the fact that he's scared of me doesn't make me pissed or even exhilarated, like it usually does. Maybe it's coz I've never done _anything _to the poor guy to garner this extreme a reaction, and I've just been through quite a bit, but the sight of the quivering sheets just makes me sad and a little guilty. Whatever the reason, anyway, I kinda feel for the kid.

"Matt?" I call, carefully padding over to the bed. I perch on the end, frowning at the boy who resolutely stays bunched up in his bedding. If anything, I think he actually tugs the sheets tighter around him in defiance. "Hey," I say, a little more impatiently, reaching for the only exposed part of my roommate –the soft points of brown hair poking out. The second my fingertips brush that thatch, however, they pop right in to join the rest of Matt in hiding. I'd find this funny if this wasn't all so unnecessary and exaggerated.

"Get out of there," I demand, giving the lump a slight shove. Now I could just be seeing things, but I could swear the lump shook its head. Really, this is just getting pathetic. Rolling my eyes, I straighten up and take the only reasonable course of action.

I grab the bedding and with every ounce of strength in my nine-year-old body, yank it off. "I said, get up!"

**-xxxxx-**  
><strong>-xxxxx-<strong>

The moment I'm torn from my pea-green sanctuary, I shriek. Pathetic, I know –no, actually, it's even beyond that. I'm acting irrationally for such an intelligent child, but I'd abandoned rationality the minute I saw the boy burning bright with fire. It's like all my nightmares came together and came to life.

So blanket-less me balls up and buries my face in the mattress and hopes to whatever gods are out there that this boy will leave.

Apparently the gods could care less about me right now, because the blonde boy is still right where he is.

Actually no. The gods _hate _me, because the boy actually _reaches over _and tugs at my shirt.

I pout into the sheets.

Tug.

Shake head.

"For the love of all that is holy" –and with that, I find myself staring (incredibly reluctantly) at the boy's face, the sole force keeping me aloft being the hand none too gently grasping my hair and so I close my eyes, not wanting to see- "what are you, scared of daylight or something? That why you rarely attend class?"

And –great. I am now hyperventilating.

"And is that why you're so pale?" I can hear the frown in his voice. Go away, go away. "Did I get a mute vampire for a roommate? Because that would not be fun at all."

Room- _roommate?_

I am now hyperventilating a lot.

"Hey, calm down." The displeasure shifts to concern now. I can feel the fire eyes peering at me from beneath furrowed brows. Goggles, goggles –where are they? "What- oh." Something brushes my collar and I nearly asphyxiate myself not breathing. And now they're being lifted off my neck –shit, _shit_ – can't open my eyes – Roger – and something familiar and comforting suddenly presses down on my cheeks.

Oh.

I sneak a peek and sure enough, the world is safe and tinted orange.

The boy on fire has been reduced to quiet embers.

I breathe a very audible sigh of relief.

"You're weird," the boy states, with the air of one who believes their authority is indisputable. His expression is haughty as he peers down at me; I think he's sizing me up. Me? I blink up at him like an idiot. "I'm Mello."

When I try to reply I find I have to hack and wheeze a few times before I find my voice. In high contrast to the glass-cut vowels and curious accent of this Mello, my own voice is raspy and stuttering (probably because, you know, I don't talk to people. Much.) "M- Matt." And then, "why are you on fire?"

Those ice blue eyes (still pretty scary) go wide, and for a moment I'm apprehensive –it feels like he might yell or hit me or –or even take away my goggles. But then Mello bends over, his fiery eyes creased up, and it takes me a moment to realize he's laughing.

"You really are weird," Mello comments, catching his breath.

With my goggles in place, and with seeing him laugh (and hey, even chuckling a bit over the absurdity of my own question), I'm feeling a lot better off than at the start of this whole encounter. Pretty confident, even. "And why do you look like a girl?"

Quick as a blink, Mello's face hardens. His fire blazes up high, so cold it burns. "Say that again and I'll kill you."

Now, I _really _don't know what possessed me to do it, but I said it again: "you look like a girl."

His fist is swinging before I even finish the sentence.

**-xxxxx-**

A black eye, a sprained wrist, a bruised cheek, five scratches and one _very _irate Roger later, and I'm sitting next to Mello in the hospital ward at Wammy's House, cradling my gaming hand against my chest. The nurse checks us over once again, tutts, and we're sent on our way. We head back to my (or is it "our" now?) room in silence, maintaining a safe distance from each other. The corridors take us past my history classroom. I pause, cock my head, and let out a short bark of laughter.

Mello stops abruptly and turns to me, his expression having "my new roommate is crazy" written all over it. "What?"

"This is the first time I've left my room in two days, barring dinner." I grin, nodding in the direction of the classroom, where I can hear the teacher droning on about some war or other.

He blinks at me for a few seconds, then actually laughs. "You really _are _weird."

I shrug.

He grins.

So maybe not all kinds of fire are bad, after all.

**-xxxxx-**

_A/N As stated in chapter seven, I'm changing the point of view to first person, present tense. I hope it hasn't become confusing! Many thanks to anyone who reads this, and more so to those who review!_


	5. Ranks

_A/N Again, edited to first person, present tense!  
><em>

_Blanket disclaimer is in the first chapter. Last reminder: a double __**-xxxxx- **__indicates a shift in POV, a single one a time skip._

_On with the chapter!_

**-xxxxx-**

Whimper.

"…mm…?"

Whimper. Whine.

"…..Matt…?"

Rustle. Sniffle. Whimper.

"Matt."

Choked sob. Sniffle.

"_Gottverdammt__." _Loud rustle. Grinding teeth. Angry stomping. A rush of air, moonlight on orange goggles. "Shove over."

Sob. "Wha-?" Sniffle.

"Shove over!"

Rustle.

_Thwump_. Dip in the mattress.

Sniffle.

"God you're a wuss." Abrupt tug. Messy brown locks on a loose brown shirt. Pointy chin digging into scalp. A thin arm thrown roughly around his shoulders.

Silence.

A muffled sniffle.

"…Mel-?"

"Go to sleep."

"But-"

"I said go to sleep!"

Silence. Then a slightly calloused hand clenching around a loose black shirt. Ragged breathing turning slow. Deft fingers lifting goggles from his face, careful not to disturb his peace, and placing them on the nearby bedside table.

Moonlight.

"…what's _gottverdammt-__?"_

"Sleep!"

**-xxxxx-**  
><strong>-xxxxx-<strong>

When I woke in the morning, Matt was still snuffling blissfully in the crook of my shoulder. One sleeve of his oversized, striped sweater had slipped off his shoulder, revealing porcelain skin that sun had never touched. Looking at the kid, I wondered if he knew that his nose twitched like a hamster when he slept. And then I realize how close we are and recoil and-

THWUMP.

"_Scheisse__!"_

"…mmph…?" I look up and nearly collide with a bleary-looking, tousle-haired Matt. I jerk back and thwack my head on Matt's bedside table. _That's gonna bruise_. Much to my dismay, by the time I look back up, Matt has his goggles on (askew), blinking dazedly at me (through a thatch of dirty brown hair that looked electrocuted then frozen in place). He yawns and mumbles, "Wire moo own dafo?"

Or something to that ilk.

"Stripes," I drawl, rolling my eyes and carefully getting to my feet, "you are _clearly _not a morning person." Reaching over, I pinch the bridge of his goggles, pull, and snap them back onto his face. There, at least they're on his eyeballs straight.

"Fuck!"

"At least you're awake, _ja__?"_

"_Arschloch__."_

"…you speak German?"

"Conversationally."

"_Verpiss dich, dummkopf__."_

"Good morning to you too."

Muttering more curses under my breath, I whip around and stomp over to my still-unpacked boxes. It's only when I'm wrestling out a shirt and a pair of jeans that I allow a corner of my lips to twitch up in a small smile. The kid's all right.

"Mel?"

"Don't call me that, _saukerl."_

"Thanks."

"You were keeping me up."

"Thanks anyway."

"_Nichts zu danken, dummkopf."_

**-xxxxx-**

It's halfway through first period mathematics when I finally drag Matt into the room. We'd woken up two hours early (with Matt swearing rather heavily in four different languages -who knew?- when he'd seen it was only six in the morning), but it took me nearly all that time to separate Matt from the bed, shove him into the shower, wrestle him into clean clothes and tow his much-resisting self to our first class. For someone reputed to be a slouchy, lazy, inertand socially-inept gamer, he can be really resistant and stubborn when he wants to be.

Thanks to my performance in my previous school, I've finally been placed (for now, as Roger said, but I'm determined to make it for good) in the most advanced classes, alongside (surprisingly) Matt. And thanks to my highly ingrained competitive attitude and natural inclination toward studying, I'm determined not to miss any class whatsoever. It baffles me that my roommate is determined to do the exact opposite. What is he, allergic to lectures?

"Oh, the new student! Good morning Mello, and –Matt?" The teacher blinks, taken aback. "Well… it certainly is surprising and… pleasant to see you on a Monday. Er… Take your seat, Matt. Mello, come claim your class material."

Matt disengages my grip and shuffles over to a seat at the back. I can see his PSP peeking out of his pants pocket. Good grief. Frowning after him, I snatch the papers from the teacher's grip. Ms. Tanya Carter, the paper reads. Algebra First Class.

Algebra? First class?

"Take your seat now, Mello, class is about to begin."

I raise my eyebrows at her before sashaying over to the seat next to Matt, all the way at the back of the classroom. I can feel the rest of the class watching me, probably wondering who the new kid is. Or -judging by everyone's surprised reactions at Matt's presence and Roger's comments three days before- surprised at my getting Matt out of bed, and his room, on a Monday.

Jesus, when does this kid ever attend class?

As I slide into my seat, my eyes are already fixing on the board, absorbing the complex equation on it. On my second read, small movements and a strange clicking noise to my left pull my attention to my seatmate who, to my utter disbelief, is playing on a DS.

In the middle of math class.

Is this kid serious?

"Matt."

"Mm."

"Matt!"

"Nngh."

"Stop playing!"

Matt shifts in his seat. "7x plus the square root of 5y all over quantity 6y8z squared."

"What?"

"I'm serious."

"Pay attention!"

"Take your own advice, why don't you?"

Harrumphing, I turn back to the board and-

Final answer: (7x + √5y)/(6y8z)²

…_what? _I look from the equation on the board to Matt to the equation to Matt and try to figure out how, in the span of maybe thirty seconds, the little gamer boy solved the problem without so much as looking up from his game. I pride myself in my math skills, yes, but I can't calculate the answer to an equation like that _that _fast -and that'd be with paper. I sneak a glance at the papers of the students in front of us. They hadn't managed to finish solving it, either. I look back at Matt, who's back to being completely engrossed in his game. What on earth is he?

"I like math."

"What?"

"I like math." Matt actually pauses his game to look up at me. "It helps in the coding and crap of programs and whatnot. In hacking too. Plus this stuff's algebra, no biggy. Maybe I'll lug my ass to class more often when we hit calculus or something. Things I don't already know." He unpauses the game and resumes clicking away.

I'm pretty sure I look like an idiot with the way I'm staring at him incredulously, but from what I've seen of Matt in the past three days, he's your regular old _hikikomori, _departing from his games or computer (_come to think of it, where did he even get one?_) solely for food and bathroom breaks. And yet he'd solved the math problem in a single breath, without so much as writing the equation down on paper.

"…I have handed out the problem set to be turned in next meeting. Once you have obtained a copy, you are dismissed."

_Scheiss_. I'd been so bewildered by Matt's sudden display of mind use that I'd missed the rest of the lesson.

"Mello?" I turn and there's a girl around my age, her honey pigtails in danger of coming loose, proffering two sheets of paper. "Here."

"Hm-? Oh." It was the problem set. "Thanks."

"I'm Linda," says pigtails girl. "Rank six."

"Rank what?"

"You'll see. See ya, two." Linda nods at Matt and sweeps away, Chesire Cat grin wide on her face. I frown after her and poke Matt repeatedly in the ribs until he squirms and glares at me.

"What?"

"Why was she rank six?"

"Because she's a smart pain in the ass."

"Why'd she call you two?"

"Same reason."

"What's with the numbers?"

"Just some crap."

"Can't you give me a straight answer?"

"Don't we have Biology?"

"_Dummkopf._"

**-xxxxx-**  
><strong>-xxxxx-<strong>

Thankfully, Mello seems distracted enough by the thought of being late for Biology, so he doesn't question me any further on the ranking system that makes up the foundation of Wammy's academe. Because truthfully, the whole thing pisses me off. I don't really care if I'm sixth or sixtieth; it's not like I _want _to be the next L, which is what we're all here for. But I don't bomb out on purpose, no. I still have my pride.

The next three classes pass much the same as math, though halfway through third period world history Mello _finally _decides to give up on convincing me to pay attention and just leaves me alone. I think he's a little miffed, but I just shrug it off. That I'm here in class -and on a Monday, no less- is effort enough, for me. I'll look at the board for a bit, take in the important stuff, then start up the DS and tap away. Mello, on the other hand, sits ramrod straight, hand flying over his papers as he takes a steady stream of notes.

And he calls me weird.

Lunch finally rolls around, thank _god _-I'm fucking starving. I usually eat breakfast during first period; the lunch ladies and I are good friends. But Mello forced me to attend class, so I missed my chance to eat. I swear, my stomach's growling loud enough to rival a warring lion.

"Class dismissed," the history teacher calls, and everyone immediately rushes out to check the lunchtime posting of rankings. It happens every Monday, since Friday's testing day. I was excused from last week's test because Mello landed me in the infirmary, so that might have affected my scores, but I don't feel much like finding out. I hang back, waiting for the stampede to clear, then saunter out, Mello close at heel.

"Where's everybody going?" he demands, once he notices I'm not heading where everyone else is going.

Three days in his constant presence have rendered me accustomed to Mello's difficult nature (it's hard not to get used to him; he doesn't leave you much of a choice -it's that or pissing off completely), so I can talk to him now. As long as my goggles are on, he's not the boy on fire. "Rankings," I offer, as I make my way to where I know there's a roast beef sandwich with my name on it.

"Why aren't we following them?" He's slowing down now.

"Because you aren't ranked yet and I don't give a shit."

"_Scheisse, _what, are you always fifty-third or something? I wanna know why these ranks are such a big deal." Before I can so much as protest, his hand is around my arm in that vice grip again and he drags me down the corridors to the board outside the faculty.

Ah, and there's the list.

Most of the students have checked their ranks. Some are whooping (_promoted_), others bawl (_demoted_) and the rest just shake their heads (_haven't changed_). At the very bottom is "_Mello – unranked_" and said boy is peering at it curiously. I make myself comfortable against the wall and continue playing. This is really just a waste of time. The top ten doesn't change much, and they're the only ones who really matter -they're the only ones who could possibly be L. Any less and you might as well be last.

A hard punch to the shoulder breaks my concentration.

"What?" That hurt.

"Second?" Mello's indignant face looms dangerously close to mine. Wow, proximity. "You're fucking second? Even if all you do is mooch around and play games in class?"

"No big deal."

"_Dummkopf."_

Shrug.

"So who's this Tristan?"

"First."

"Who's he?"

"Red head, leather jacket. Graduating."

Silence except for the clicking of the DS buttons.

Something red passes by.

"Tristan?"

His voice causes a momentary lapse in my concentration. Tristan's a few steps away, frowning at Mello, clearly confused and probably pissed at being addressed so casually by someone "beneath" him, someone he didn't even know.

"Yeah?" he finally answers, wary.

What happens next happened so fast that if I hadn't seen Mello straddling Tristan on the floor, bruise already blooming on the redhead's cheek, I could have sworn I hadn't seen anything.

"You're in my spot," Mello say, grinning maniacally.

_The boy on fire is crazy, _I decide, and leave the scene in favor of that sandwich.

**-xxxxx-**

_A/N Translations (German):_

_Gottverdammt – goddamnit_

_Scheisse – shit_

_Ja – yes _

_Arschloch – asshole_

_Verpiss dich, dummkopf – Piss off, stupidhead_

_Saukerl – bastard/pig_

_Nichts zu danken – you're welcome (sort of informal)_

_Translations (Japanese):_

_Hikikomori – a term for a bum; a person who stays hold up in his or her room, rarely leaving or socially interacting, usually found playing games or reading or listening to music_

_Matt's question to Mello after waking is a very sleepily mumbled "why are you on the floor?"_

_The first part is Matt having a nightmare, just so you guys know._

_This chapter is long, page-wise (7!) but since so much of it is conversation, the word count isn't actually that high. Pretty tough to crank out, though. Whaddya think? Near isn't in the picture yet, but just wait until he is. It's gonna be so much fun._

_R&R?_


	6. Successors

_A/N I've been thinking over the plots, and I think it's high time I shook things up a bit, ne?_

**-xxxxx-**

_Clack._

_Clack clack. _

"Shit, shitshitshit-!"

_Ping. _

"Oh fuck, oh shit, thank _god__…_"

_Clack clack clack. Taktaktak._

"No, nonono –son of a bitch! Get the hell away from me you fuckers –take that, fuck off, fuck _off__…_"

_Clack taktaktak clack clack click taktak._

_Shick –click. BAM._

"Chocolate's in the topmost drawe- NO! Motherfucking- get away! Shoot, shoot –_verpiss __dich,__ merde__ santa,__ arschloch_ –don't you fucking dare-!"

_Thud_. Rustle, rustle.

_Clack clack taktaktak._

_SNAP._

"Hersheys?"

"It was all I could snitc- Jesus fuck get off me! Stupid zombies!"

_Thwump. _

Dip in the bed. Rustle of a book being opened.

_Clack clack taktaktak. Snap. Taktak clack ping. Snap._

It's been a week since Mello's room was set up.

His pillows and bedding are now in his room, along with his clothes and few personal possessions. His books and chocolate, however, are still stashed around my room. He claims the clacking noises and long strings of threats and swearwords emanating from my gaming corner are "highly conducive" to his studying. I think he's crazy and lying, but since he can pick locks and is about as stubborn as I am (and he never interrupts a game, anyway) I just let him do as he please. It's less painful, in the long run.

_Clack clack. Rustle. Snap. Clack taktak. Rustle. Snap._

The snap of Mello's chocolate fetish and the rustle of pages almost makes me feel like I have a friend, anyway. But only almost. You don't form friendships at Wammy's House for Gifted Children.

**-xxxxx-**  
><strong>-xxxxx-<strong>

"The name's Alyexis. Fifteenth."

"Chace. Seventeenth."

"Mello. Twenty-three."

I spend the three months before Wammy's mid-year graduation studying, steadily climbing through the ranks. In a month and a half I've gone from unranked to fortieth to thirty-second to twenty third. I need to make up for the humiliation at being dropped from First to Third class. The classes here are determined by score and rank; right after the first series of tests I was placed in what Roger called my "rightful level" and what I call "the class of dumbshits." If by the next tests I'm not back in Matt's class, I'm going to kill someone.

I made a promise that day I left Mihael Keehl behind, and it was to be the best for L. I'm here to be L's potential replacement, should something happen to the current one. I've heard and read the stories, how he ventures out into the world, laying his life on the line everyday but solving the world's toughest crimes without lifting a finger. I'm not going to be second best, not for him. I'm out for number one.

"I see you've made friends with Two."

It's an innocent comment, but her eyes are narrowed, conveying the suspicion words don't. I swear, life at Wammy's is like being in one of Matt's ridiculous video games; you're constantly under fire, shot at with questions and expectations. But it's fine. I thrive under pressure.

"He's a nice kid."

"Aiming for his rank?" God, it's this kind of talk that prevents friendships from happening in this school. We all think everyone's out to get us.

But I grin at them. "Aiming to top."

"Don't be so cocky," Alyexis warns, wagging a calloused finger at us. "Matt's held second from the moment he landed in this place. That kid's got something."

As in of cue, "that kid" shuffles his way into the dining hall, snatches up a tray, loads it with food, and plonks down next to Linda (six), Carmeline (three), Sebastian (eight) and Mikhail (nine). It's an unspoken rule that students of similar rank sit together, hence my lunch with Seventeen and Fifteen. I remember the first time I saw Matt actually socializing. I'd nearly gone to the nurse's office, ready to claim hallucination. I found out afterward that when Matt could be bothered, he _did _fraternize with the other Wammy kids, who liked him well enough, even if they found him a bit strange (but who among us isn't?). Matt just can't be bothered most of the time. Makes me wonder why he lets me in so often.

My rise in ranks is actually only rivaled by Matt's own. He'd come here, thatch of brown hair like a bird's nest and bizarre goggles askew, and two months later took second rank with ease -and without seeming to care. How or why is wildly speculated, but what everyone _really _loves talking about is why Matt's not first. And it puzzles me exceedingly, this consensus that Tristan isn't first because he wants it, but because Matt _doesn't _want it.

"Shuffled into Wammy's at eight, fresh from a Catholic orphanage, with that ridiculous rosary and nary a shit to give in the world." Chace chuckles, eyes on Matt as he writes something on Carmeline's notebook. "Overtook even the graduating students. They say his IQ's 200."

"They also said Roger's gypping his grades because he hacked the system mainframe and got his hands on sensitive information regarding Roger, which he's blackmailing the old geezer with." Alyexis rolls her eyes and stands, picking up her tray. "He's a smart kid, not a conspiracy theory. I've got tech in five. See you guys in Japanese."

"I'll walk you out. Got a course in Tchaikovsky coming up." Chace stacks his own tray and nods in my direction. "See ya, Twenty-three."

"Likewise, Seventeen."

My interest shifts from my lunchtime companions to my chocolate cake. I need to finish it before World Literature. The academic system here, as I've learned, is incredibly complex. We share basic classes: languages, mathematics, science, humanities and criminology. After a year, students can pick specialties. So far I've seen visual arts, computer programming, architectural design, creative writing, and even forensics. Matt, I know, is in programming and ammunition systems. Being new, I've got the time to have my pick. Ranks are based on overall performance in and out of your specialization, in a complicated system of weights and percentages.

And there's the issue of "successorship." All students here are trained to replace L, but only L himself can designate his successors. Matt (strangely) is one, along with Carmeline. For reasons unknown but speculated over, Tristan isn't. Regular students graduate at 18, get a job and live their lives outside Wammy's, just like normal people. Successors stayed to train more. My goal right now is not just to be number one in rank, but in the successor line as well. I'll make myself into the _only _person L can choose.

If you weren't a genius, the goings-on and systems of Wammy's would easily discombobulate you.

"Come on, Twenty-three." Ryder (twenty), elbows me lightly on the head. "Lit in five."

Matt's shuffling off behind Linda and company to Criminal Psychology class. I shove past Ryder and stalk to the classroom.

**-xxxxx-**

In May, Tristan and the rest of the eighteen-and-ups graduated from Wammy's and took their places in the real world. There was no successor among them. The institution always finds high-profile, lucrative jobs for its graduates, who in turn donate exorbitant sums of money to the orphanage for getting them where they were. It's what keeps Wammy's so loaded; that and L's commissions from solving crimes, which could feed a small country for months.

The week before graduation, I make it to fifth. I've seen by now that not a lot of people like me, especially the top ten. I'm a threat to their usually secure rankings, the way I muscle my way to the top. Not that I give a shit. I'm on my way to fulfilling my promise.

The week of graduation, there are no tests, so I spend my time in Matt's room, studying my ass off while Matt (typically) completes Legend of Zelda, Halo, God of War, Grand Theft Auto, Harry Potter, and a handful of Shin Megami Tensei games in quick succession. (Where do all these gadgets come from?) We get up for baths and food and that's it. I've found out that when Matt gets it up to sit with actual, breathing people and interact with them, he's quite witty and a good conversation partner. Who knew?

The week after graduation, the students of Wammy's come together in the auditorium for weekly testing. I'm finally up front, next to Matt, pencil flying across the paper. Matt, on the other hand, dozes off more than a few times, scratches in answers now and then, spaces out while staring at the board, and twiddles his fingers. In the afternoon I join a few of the guys in a loose game of football on the lawn while Matt retreats to redo all the games he just completed. Figures.

The week after the tests, I throw open Matt's door and gather all my books and chocolates, and take them back to my room. I say nothing and Matt says nothing. He just adjusts his goggles and continues using Jin to kick Hazama's butt.

Nobody says anything, but they all know.

From that day until December, the name in the number one spot isn't mine.

It's Matt's.

**-xxxxx-**  
><strong>-xxxxx-<strong>

I look up from my Gameboy as Mello strides into Anatomy and Human Systems, carrying three bars of chocolate and a copy of Ernest Hemingway's _The Sun Also Rises. _The cutscene in my game ends as the teacher comes in after him. I don't need to look to know Mello's going to spend the whole period reading and munching chocolate bars, trying his utmost to ignore the teacher. Later today he'll head back to his room to study his ass off (and this I know because three weeks ago I hacked the video feeds of all the Wammy security cameras for a thrill). He'll pass out, jerk awake an hour before class, and get ready. Rinse, repeat.

Not that I give a shit, but part of me wants to tell Mello he's going at this all wrong. Ever since the tests post-graduation, when I'd taken top (beating Mello only _marginally, _mind you), he's refused to speak to me. And I know everyone wonders about it, but I'm L's successor with good reason, and I don't ace the psychology classes out of luck. I'm good at reading people, and I know what Mello's trying to do as he ignores me and brings book after book to class, hunching up in a corner as far away room the teacher as possible. He's trying to do things like I do. He's trying to be the best without any effort. I'm pretty sure that if Mello beats me in his usual way -unwavering attention to the teacher, verbatim notes and long study nights- it won't be as satisfying, because it's not as if I do the same.

This is why I don't like talking to people.

In the end, though, I just play along with him and carry on, same as always. It's pretty obvious that if Mello simply reverts to his old habits he'll beat me easily, but I'm not about to tell him that (not that I can, anyway). And I'm not about to fail on purpose just to give Mello the satisfaction of top rank.

"Oh hello, Roger. Is that the new student?"

It's a year since Mello's own new-student status at Wammy's, so his novelty has worn off. The buzz of the classroom picks up. It's even enough for me to pause my game and look up. New students are a rarity; you don't get many orphan geniuses in these parts.

It's a boy. Probably one, two years younger than me. Puff of white hair, pale face, dark cold eyes -and are those white pajamas? And bare feet? And his hands -one carries a toy soldier, the other absentmindedly twirls a lock of his hair. The overall impression I'm getting is analytical sheep. I wonder if he'd ever go "baa."

"Yes he is. Children, this is Near. He will be sitting in the First class until we can judge his rank."

_Near?__ What __kind__ of__ a__ stupid __name __is __that?__ It__'__s__ like __Beyond __but __not. _I spare the shuffling cotton ball a frown before going back to my game, his novelty having already worn off. He's just another student.

**-xxxxx-**  
><strong>-xxxxx-<strong>

Much as I try to remain just as disinterested in the newcomer as Matt, it's just _so damn hard. _Something about his apathetic nature (which rivals even Matt's) and his cold intellects just - just rattles me. And what cements my hatred is the fact that after the next week's testing, Near isn't shifted to Third Class like I was. He wasn't even moved into Fourth (which would have made me very happy) or Second (small consolations), no.

Testing day came, and went, and the rankings were up, and Near stayed in First class.

And the whole of Wammy's is buzzing with fresh and exciting gossip because lazy, unmotivated Matt is _first, _new-boy Near is second, and _I _am third. Third! As if being second to Benedikt, and then Matt, hadn't been bad enough!

Two days later, Roger calls the three of us and Carmeline into his office, where a laptop on the desk lies waiting.

The next day, a sobbing Carmeline informs the rest of Wammy's that L has designated new successors.

**-xxxxx-**

_A/N Again, edited to first person, present.  
><em>

_The plot thickens! Hehehe. Poor Mello, all he really wants is to be first. But Matt's got him beat and now even Near is ahead of him. What's gonna happen to the three now?_

_Was this chapter a bit of an information overload, what with all the stuff about Wammy's? Idk, I just wanted to try and make up my own version of their system._

"_Merde santa" means holy shit. I think it's Italian._


	7. Apologies

_A/N In response to the person who reviewed, commenting on the title of the story- I know it's rather commonplace, but I assure you, smoke and bullets are incredibly integral to the overall theme and plot of the story. I've already dropped hints in the first few chapters; it will all come together in the end. I won't hint any more as I might give away something important, but there you go. :D_

_I own no games mentioned in this fanfic._

_I've rewritten most chapters (aside from the first three), changing the point of view from first to third. I also switched back to present tense. I hope that doesn't get too confusing._

_Chapter time!_

**-xxxxx-**

I couldn't look at Near, and I goddamn wouldn't even fucking well _breath _in Matt's direction.

Third in the rankings _and_ third in the goddamn successor line.

I could _kill _Roger, just for telling us.

What the fuck's so great about mop-haired gamer nerd, anyway? Lazy-ass fucker.

**-xxxxx-**

_Tap. Tap tap. Taptaptaptap._

Sometime in the months after my _humiliating _failure to take the top spot, I've gotten into the habit of tapping my pen while studying. It's just some obsessive-compulsive thing, though, just something I _have _to do, like eating chocolate or swearing excessively over the tougher problems. It is definitely _not _in compensation for anything.

Not at all.

I mean, it's not exactly like the clacking of those Xbox controller buttons-

Stop. No. Chocolate.

I rip open another bar and savagely break off the top half with my teeth. There. Better. Now for those logarithms.

**-xxxxx-**  
><strong>-xxxxx-<strong>

I run a slightly calloused pointer finger over the spine of one of my dusty textbooks, contemplating on whether I should actually _try _to study or no. The finger hooks over the top and tilts it out (and I don't need a protractor to know I'll have tilted it out at almost precisely 30°, damned obsessive-compulsive genius tendencies). It's Wednesday, two days to testing day –the last test day of the semester, so the tests will be pretty tough. But the book's so thick, and the text inside is no doubt tiny, so with a sigh, I let it drop back into place.

I glance over at my desk, where yesterday, in a half-hearted attempt to "study," I spread what notes I have (barely any) and some problem sets from Calculus and Physics (which I've barely glanced at). Then I settle my butt on the threadbare carpet and boot up my PS2 (L's gift to me when I became a successor). Nothing like Tekken to take a mind off studying.

The breeze blowing through my window ruffles the pages of my notebooks, and strangely enough, some tension leaks out of my shoulders. I frown, momentarily losing concentration, and nearly get KO'd by my current opponent. You'd think I hadn't noticed the sound of _someone_ turning pages over the _clack _of my control buttons, the constant stream of swearwords coming from my mouth, and the music from my games, but I had. But it's not like the lack of it has bothered me.

It's not like that at all.

The pages ruffle again and I feel the tension leak out a little more. Shaking my head, I ignore the implications and simply focus on kicking the next guy's butt. Nothing like Tekken to take your mind off _anything._

**-xxxxx-**  
><strong>-xxxxx-<strong>

'Motherfucking little sheep-!"

Six months after that stupid white-haired Near had arrived and finally, _finally, _Matt isn't number one. Sure, the scores are pretty damn close and Matt (once again, surprise, surprise) has topped the techs and criminal psych. But he's not number one. Improvement.

What _isn't _an improvement, however, is my name _still _filling in the rank of third.

And what is completely and utterly _bullshit _is the fact that weirdo Near, with his shock of fluffy white hair and his stupid white pajamas and his inability to do anything other than play with his stupid toys, is _first._

Near. is. First.

I sock one to the wall in frustration and grind my teeth.

"Hey Seb, look. Fluffy's beat Matt to top spot."

"Matt's always seemed pretty attached to the number two spot, anyway." There's laughter behind me, but I'm too busy embedding my fist into concrete to really pay attention to the conversation behind me. Stupid Near, stupid fucking Near, and dumbass fucking _Matt…_

"Yeah, but Blondie's still Three."

"Serve him right for overtaking us. The kid's what, ten? How old are you again, Seb? Fifteen?"

"Shut it, Twelve."

"Ooh, Eight's getting touchy."

"Hey, isn't that him?"

Suddenly I'm spun around and shoved into the wall. _Damnit_. That conversation had gone completely over my head in the wake of my anger at not moving up rank. And now Sebastian (eight), Clovis (twelve) and Anneliese (the new nine, since Mikhail had graduated) are grinning at me in a way that did not bode well for a skinny ten-year-old, red belts or no.

Seb gets a fistful of my shirt and leans toward me. "How'd a kid like you get so high up, anyway? Got something on Roger?"

"Maybe he's _slept _with Roger."

"Urgh, Clovis, that's just vile."

"The point is," Seb grinds out, his grin turning something nasty, "I don't like the idea of a girly-looking kid in ranks higher than me. Matt was bad enough." He lets go of my shirt, thankfully, but then his arm snaps back and his fist connects with my face. Bastard. I didn't see that one coming. It'll give me a nice little shiner later on.

He bends his arm to hit again and this time I shift to catch the blow and throw him to the floor, judo-style. Before anything happens, though, there's a quiet _click _and something suddenly strikes Seb in the right temple. He immediately crumples to the floor. Anneliese, Clovis and I all look down at his prone form, then (almost simultaneously) look to the left.

Lo and behold, there's Matt, checking the catch, silencer and slide on a slim, smoking, and likely handmade gun.

Blasé as always, he slides the parts back into place (_taking his sweet, sweet time, no doubt_) and looks up. One thin eyebrow goes up, but other than that, his bored expression goes unchanged. This is something I really, _really _hate about the guy: my emotions are always running rampant over my face, but Matt, unless he decides otherwise, always has this detached expression. Like he never really gives a shit.

"Sorry," Matt yawns, not sounding the least bit apologetic. "I just came from the ammunitions section. Checked up on my latest project. Guess I've got more of an itchy trigger finger than I thought." He slips the gun into a holster around his hips (now where the hell did that come from?) and shoves his hands into his pockets. "'Least I didn't kill him, though, right?" he shrugs. One corner of his thin lips curls upward, the tip of an incisor just poking out.

Something about his expression and the undercurrent to his voice tells us that had he wanted to, he _could _have killed Seb –or at the very least, seriously injured him. As it is, Seb barely struggles to his feet, a thin line of blood running down from the break in his skin. He takes a wobbly step toward Matt (who, by the way, has already taken out his PSP, obviously having lost interest in the rest of us, bastard) but seems to think better of it, and hobbles off. Anneliese catches his arm and helps him along, and with one last glance between me and Matt, Clovis follows.

It's not until the three of them turn the corner at the end of the corridor that the information finishes buffering in my head and I realize that Matt -who I haven't spoken to in what, a year?- has just _shot _someone who tried to bully me. I can't bring myself to react, though, until he bends down in front of me to pick up the tiny pellet he used as ammo. My hand snaps out to catch his arm, but he sidesteps me and shuffles away, eyes not leaving his game once.

"What the hell, Matt?" I yell after the slouched boy. It feels as if I've been cheated out of something, but I really don't know what. Matt doesn't reply, though; he doesn't even turn around. His only form of acknowledgement is to toss the pellet over his shoulder. My body moves of its own accord and catches the small, hollow, red ball. It weighs practically nothing in my hand, unlike the confusion in my mind. But it takes my mind off the freshly posted ranks, at least.

Not that bewilderment's much better than resentment.

**-xxxxx-**  
><strong>-xxxxx-<strong>

Roger caught me a few minutes after I left the last of my classes (apparently Seb and the others ran into him on their way to the infirmary), and now I'm standing in front of his desk, focusing on the soccer game going on outside, effectively tuning out his lecture. It is apparently irresponsible of me to have shot at a fellow Wammy's student, accident or not. Not that I really give a damn whether Seb dies or gets a concussion or what –I've never liked the guy; he's too arrogant and he likes to throw punches at people who get ahead of him. And it's not like Roger can do much to me, being L's successor and all.

This lecture, however, prevents me from analyzing my actions earlier this afternoon (and prevents me from grabbing a snack, curse this old geezer). So as it is, I can't say _why _I decided to shoot Seb in the head. But no matter. I'll give it a moment after this blows over, before I resume my Persona3 game.

But when Roger, red-faced and fuming, finally releases me from torture and I get back to my room, wonder of wonders! The door is open a crack. And I'm pretty sure I locked it before I left for ammunitions class. As my hand hovers over the door knob I notice it has fresh scratches, and then I hear it: the faintly familiar _snap _and rustle. Smiling despite myself, I push the door wide open.

There, on my bed, is Mello, a big fat biology textbook open on his lap, bar of chocolate in hand. He's made himself at home on my messy Mario-print sheets (a birthday gift from L –who knew, right?), with his other textbooks piled haphazardly among scattered notebooks and problem sets. He doesn't look up, doesn't speak to me at all, but the hand not holding the chocolate bar plucks something from beneath all the papers and holds it out. It's my Persona3 UMD.

I look at it for a few moments, then at Mello reading his biology book like his life depended on it (which is absolutely retarded since we don't even have class anymore tomorrow), then shrug. Wordlessly, I kick of my shoes and pad over to my bed. The second the UMD leaves his palm, he turns the page, and continues studying. But I don't mind. I know this is Mello's way of apologizing. And so I simply make myself comfortable at the foot of my bed, already losing myself in Tartarus.

Nothing else passes between us, no words or interactions, until Mello taps me on the shoulder a few minutes before dinner, drawing me from my pixellated world to the real one. I rub the slight sting of bright screens from my eyes and push my goggles back into place (I don't play with them on; they ruin the color quality, and there's no fire in my pixel worlds anyway). Then, as if the past months of silence never happened, we both settle into the old routine. Mello works the kinks out of his back as I wiggle the feeling back into my legs. He packs his stuff as I switch UMDs. He buckles his boots and I lace up my shoes. I pocket my PSP and he opens the door, striding down the corridor with his head held high, me ambling along in his wake.

It's not until later that night, when Mello's passed out on my bed as he always used to, curled up among his books and papers, that I pause my battle against Nyx and allow myself to think about my actions. It was _my_ way of apologizing, I suppose, even if I didn't do anything wrong. My way of patching things up. That and I really just don't like Seb. As for pride, well, it was Mello who picked my lock now, wasn't it? So it's with a smile that I clear away his things and tuck a blanket around him, taking the chocolate bar from his fingers so it doesn't leave crumbs on my bed or mush into his hair. And just like a year ago, I pull out my Pokéball beanbag (last year's birthday gift from L –I swear, that guy is creepy, with the way he knows exactly what I want), tug my goggles down around my neck, curl up and sleep.

**-xxxxx-**

_A/N Aww. There, now they're more or less friends! Or at least, Mello doesn't seem to hate Matt as badly anymore. When will Mello take second, and how? And what about Near? What will happen to the three of them? We've got five more years to cover before L dies and Mello takes off from Wammy's, so there's room for plenty to happen._

_R&R?_


	8. Gun Range

When I jerk awake in a room that is definitely not mine, my initial thoughts are of drugs, death, and Benedikt. Sunlight trickles in weakly through the curtains, hinting that it's very early in the morning. I shake my head violently, trying to rid my mind of the nightmare. As my eyes manage to focus on the Mario characters decorating the blanket, and the thatch of brown hair just peeking out over the edge of the bed, it dawns on me that I'm in Matt's room. My eyes travel from the sheets that had definitely not covered me last night, to my books neatly stacked on the desk, to the snuffling boy on the beanbag whose head is leaning on the mattress, and a grin tugs at the corners of my lips.

The kid's still all right.

**-xxxxx-  
>-xxxxx-<strong>

I wake up somewhat uncomfortably warm, and with something tickling my nose. My first thoughts, as they always are in the morning, are blurry. _What the fuck is this semi-squeaky fabric – why am I almost sitting – what the hell is covering me?_ I rub the sleep from my eyes and stretch –why are there more kinks than usual?- and look down and blink.

I'm wrapped in my Mario blanket, on the beanbag. And the last time I'd slept on the beanbag was…

Something white flutters in his peripheral vision, and I turn blearily. A small scrap of paper's pinned under my PSP, resting innocently on my –wonder of wonders- neatly made bed. I reach over and (after a few embarrassingly uncoordinated misses) tug it free. There are two words written in strangely neat handwriting. It takes me a moment to make out that it's written in English, and not hieroglyphics or cuneiform (_really not a morning person_).

_Thanks, Stripes._

"No problem, Mel," I mutter, a corner of my lips twitching upward. It's not an apology, but from what I've seen of my one-time roomie, it's the closest I'll ever get, and so it's enough.

Still smiling, I toss the blanket onto my bed and shuffle off to the bathroom. It's Tuesday and it's almost time for breakfast. It's also the start of summer break.

**-xxxxx-**

I amble into the dining hall a half hour later, slightly surprised to find it still full of chattering students. I'd thought it was later on in the morning, but evidently I was wrong, and it _is _summer break –no one's in a hurry to leave. Grabbing a plate, I pile it with breakfast pastries, eggs and gigantic slices of ham –no such thing as a food shortage or scrimping at Wammy's- and survey the room.

Linda (still six), Carmeline (now four) and Klaus (seven) are at their usual table. Normally I'd join them, but I don't feel like putting up with Linda's and Carmeline's excessive chatter (though quiet Klaus would be welcome). I'm considering taking an empty table to myself when I spot Mello sitting alone, in a corner by the huge windows, the skin around one eye bruised. We had a quiet dinner in my room last night –I'd brought back some food from the dining hall- so this is the first time everyone will see us together again. Knowing that every student in the hall will be watching my movements, I weave through the sea of bodies and furniture, and plonk my tray down across Mello's with a decisive _crack._

Mello, to his credit, barely glances up from his pancakes, but I can see the smile ghosting his features and know I'm welcome. We eat in silence, taking turns to stare out the window or down at the table. He finishes first, and after a few moments I hear the familiar _snap _of a chocolate bar. _Some things_ _really don't change._

A few bites before I finish eating, Mello piles his utensils onto his tray and stands up, deposits them onto the designated counter, and strides out of the dining hall. Soon after I follow suit, but with much less pomp. Whispers follow me as I exit the hall. I find Mello leaning rigidly against the wall outside, chunk of chocolate pinned between his lips. As soon as he sees me, he quickly chomps and swallows.

Mello's always been an easy read, and right now I can tell he's struggling between pride and… and something else. Evidently, this something else is more important (and pride's probably out the window by this time, since Mello's picked my lock, tucked me into my blanket, and left the note), because Mello opens his mouth and for the first time in a whole year, speaks.

"It's, eh, summer break so I…don't _have_ to study. So I was thinking we, er, ought to drag your ass out into the sun for once. You've probably been wasting away in your room; you're nearly as pale as Near."

This is all spoken with an air of forced nonchalance, though Mello's eyes dare me to call his bluff. I'm not one to hold a grudge, though, and it's not as if Mello's tantrum has affected me greatly, so I simply do as I always have: shrug and give him a little smile. The tension seeps out of him almost palpably; his shoulders relax and his bites become much less vicious. As he pushes himself off the wall (no hands, which makes him seem more girly than usual), I shuffle on ahead to the large door leading out to the Wammy's grounds.

One hand on the door handle, I pause, an idea coming to my mind. I'm not particularly fond of the outdoors; it usually means exercise and movement, which my sedentary gamer body rebels against. There _is _one outdoor area, however, that I can stand –the shooting grounds. Ammunitions classes are held in an open warehouse, soundproofed and isolated from the rest of the school so students can fire away in peace, but there's an open-air section next to it for field training and the occasional paintball fight.

"Fine, we'll go outside," I toss over my shoulder to Mello as I yank open the doors, letting hated sunshine touch my skin. "But I wanna head down to the ammunition grounds."

And since my back's turned to Mello, I don't notice the suddenly stricken expression on his face.

**-xxxxx-**  
><strong>-xxxxx-<strong>

_Snap._

_Snap, snap._

_Crunch. Crinkle crinkle._

Five minutes into the walk and I'm already on my fourth chocolate bar. I don't normally go through this many at once, but I can't explain my sudden craving. The closer we get to the ammunitions warehouse, the more agitated and violent my bites. Which is strange. It's not as if guns make me nervous. In fact, I've been planning to take the ammunitions class alongside Matt next semester. So I'm fine.

Whatever I need to tell myself.

"Mel? We're here." Matt's voice breaks through my anxious reverie, bringing me to a halt inches before I smack my face into the warehouse doors. I blink away my surprise and turn to glare at Matt, who's unsuccessfully trying to rearrange his expression into its usual bored state. The sight of me salvaging my dignity is apparently too much for him, because he promptly bursts out laughing, falling to the ground with his hands clutching his sides. Disgruntled (and slightly relieved at the delay), I lean against the wall and rip open another chocolate bar, demolishing the top half between my teeth in seconds. It's a while before I realize this is the first time since we've met that I've heard him laugh like this. He's grinned, chuckled some, let out a few laughs (and a few times while gaming, has fuck-ass creepy manically cackled), but I've never heard him belly out like this. It is not at all unpleasant, despite the fact that his right leg is kicking around like a dog's.

At length Matt calms down enough to stand, though he's still wheezing. He lifts up his goggles slightly to brush away some tears, but before I can lean over to peek, they're back in place. I don't know why I don't just ask him to take them off (or even just ask what color his eyes are), or why I don't take them off myself. It just… doesn't feel right. Not now.

"Are you quite finished?" I growl, snapping off another piece of chocolate. Somewhere inside me, though, is the urge to draw out this delay as long as possible. What on earth is up with me? It's just a shooting range.

"Sorry," he gasps, the remnants of his laugh still ghosting over his face. It's a nice change from his usual expression of utter detachment. He could really stand to smile more. But I'm not walking into any more doors to get him to do so.

"Can we move on now?" I ask, trying to appear as if I'm totally calm. Which I am. Shooting grounds do not make me nervous.

In response, he opens the warehouse doors and I get my first glimpse of the ammunitions setup. And I almost drop the chocolate in my mouth in shock. The place is _huge. _One wall is full of shelves, neatly arranged and labeled by parts. There are probably enough to stock every Chinese citizen for the next world war. One end of the room houses free-standing counters stocked with all sorts of tools, from welding irons to screwdrivers, presumably for students to work. Outside the windows behind the tables I see the shooting grounds, with rocks and bales of hay to hide behind, and targets to shoot at. The other end of the warehouse holds a typical gun range. The stalls have hooks for earmuffs and goggles, and the targets at the end are riddled with bullet holes from the last class.

It all simultaneously awes and scares the shit out of me.

Matt walks up to what I assume is his usual station, and pulls open a drawer. He brings out a replica of the gun he used to shoot Seb and tosses it to me. I catch it, the metal weighing heavy in my hands. The shiny chrome surface catches the light. It doesn't sit quite right in my hand and I can't stop staring at the catch and-

-_Mihael Keehl, age nine. Father dead in a shootout._

"_Eva, I have to go. A gang-"_

"-paintball or gun range?"

"What?" My head jerks up and I nearly drop the gun. Matt's looking at me questioningly, and again I curse the expressiveness of my face. I don't even know why those memories surfaced. I am no longer Mihael Keehl. That part of my life is over.

"I was asking if you wanted to play paintball or try the gun range." There's another question in Matt's voice but I ignore it. "If we play paintball, I'll need to change your bullets."

The bullet holes in the targets of the gun range remind me of something I don't want to remember, so I opt for the paintball. Matt takes the gun from me – the lack of weight is a huge relief – and slides out the ammo holder, replacing the hollow pellets with plastic balls full of paint. He hands me the gun, butt first, and as I take it from him I notice my hands are shaking slightly.

Judging by his expression, he's noticed too, but he doesn't comment and I'm grateful.

"Armor's over by the door," he says, and moves away to load his own gun. "I'll get you a refill line in a bit."

Minutes later, fully equipped, I'm huddled behind a rock while Matt's on top of a haystack. The gun feels foreign in my hand, the chest gear constricting my breathing, the helmet pressing down on my thoughts.

_Mihael Keehl, age nine. Father dead in a shootout._

"Match start!" Matt calls gleefully, and immediately after I hear the ring of impact as his first shot hits the rock I'm crouched behind. I move on impulse, my instincts telling me that staying still will lose the game. His next shot rings out to my left and I duck behind a nearby pile of hay. Five seconds and I move again, staying low, bent over to minimize target. I don't know where all this is coming from, but damn it if doesn't feel amazing. Matt's moving forward with every shot, while I zigzag around his path and eventually end up behind him. I don't think he's quite realized how vulnerable he is until I finally get a good grip on the gun in my hand and flick off the safety. The click makes him turn around and I raise the gun and aim and-

-_Mihael Keehl, age nine. Father dead in a shootout._

"_Eva, I have to go. A gang - the Mob - there's a crossfire five blocks down. I'll be back in the morning-"_

"_Viktor, please, be careful-!"_

_He never came back-_

_-bullet holes in his skin underneath the funeral tuxedo-_

-my hand shakes wildly as I try to find the trigger and the nightmare, the nightmare-

_Benedikt standing over Eva – fine white powder pouring down her throat – that strange smile – blood seeping through her lips – that strange facsimile of Viktor, the pillows and the wedding suit. – vomiting – floor – bullet holes in the dummy Viktor – Benedikt holding a smoking gun and training it on Mello-_

_I am the better son._

_Gunshots-_

"Mello. Hey, Mello!"

When I come to my senses, I'm slumped against a nearby rock, hands locked in a vice grip around the gun. Matt's shaking me, eyes wide behind the goggles, and I'm staring at them, the orange-tinted orbs, fighting against a past I strove to lock away. I never told Matt that the reason I studied until I passed out instead of reining myself in was so that I didn't scream in my sleep. I screamed all those nights at Nurse Beatrix's until the time I swore I wouldn't sleep anymore and I stayed up until 3 am and the next thing I knew, the nurse was shaking me awake, asking if I'd slept all right since I hadn't screamed at all.

His hand touches mine, feather light. I flinch and drop the gun.

"Mel?"

I don't hear him. But I need to see his eyes. His unshielded eyes. I reach up to those stupid orange goggles and my fingers curl around them and Matt jerks back. My hands hang in the air for a moment before they drop to my lap and suddenly, all the fear and fight drain out of me.

Because it's then I see that Matt's got a shot on me. A splatter of orange mars my otherwise pristine chest guard.

Matt's one ahead.

Matt got the better of me.

_I have decided to maintain Matt's position as my first successor; Near will come in second and-_

My hands reach for the gun. I'm nothing if not competitive and Matt's already beat me at rankings. I'll be damned if I let him beat me at paintball too.

And I _cannot _and _will not _be scared of guns.

My father is no longer my hero. And I am no longer Mihael Keehl.

I am Mello and I swore I'd be the best for L.

One finger curls around the trigger.

"Mel?" Matt's backing up a little now, uncertain of what's happening to me. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure, either. It feels like a while ago, when I knew exactly where to go and when to move. My mind's still engulfed with the fear of the bullets but my hands want to learn about this gun. My fingers are itching to take the shot.

"Heh." A grin spreads over my face and before I can stop myself, I raise the gun and fire once. Deep purple blooms on Matt's chest guard.

My mind reels at the sound of the shot but my heart thrills.

Two hours later and Matt's won the game at nine shots to five, but concedes that for a newbie, I've done pretty good. Which is a big compliment coming from Matt, one of the top ammunitions students in the school. Matt heads into the shower and I collapse on his bed, exhausted from the day's physical and emotional exertion. But strangely, I find I can't sleep until Matt's out of the shower and curled up on his beanbag. Then I drift off to those familiar clicks and profanities.

I don't dream.


	9. Punches

_**A/N **Dearest Xinde, thank you so much for all your wonderful reviews! I'm really sorry I haven't updated sooner; school's a right bitch and it's working me to the bone. Hopefully when summer vacation rolls around I'll have more time to write._

_Chapter time! After this chapter will come a nice big time skip since I wanna get to when Mello blows himself up already._

**-xxxxx-**

Two weeks of absolutely no class – what qualifies as "summer vacation" for the Wammy kids – equals two weeks of blissful, almost completely uninterrupted gaming time. And since L's given me a new PS3 for remaining first in the successor line – he gave Near this Near-sized robot for being second and Mello this giant box of Green and Blacks (he drooled. In front of L) for third – I've got a handful of new games to beat, and redo, and reprogram to make them more challenging. Mello's been spending all his afternoons reading books on my bed, and not even school books, for a change. Not that Shakespeare and Goethe are much better.

"How the hell do you do it, Matt?"

"Mm?" Don't talk to me, Mello, can't you see I'm trying to fly Kratos through this fucking tunnel full of junk?

"How the hell can you play all that crap and still – well, you know."

I shrug; it's the universal response to anything. I don't even know if he asked a question. He could be telling me that L had asked him to elope to Vegas on a pterodactyl with Near as the maid of honor and it would go right over my head.

The PS3 controller is yanked from my hand and tossed onto the bed. Well that's _one _way to make sure I'm paying attention. "The fuck, Mells? Are you PMS-ing or something?"

"I'm asking you a question, _Matty. _Least you can do was act like you're listening."

I grumble, watching as Kratos gets clobbered by a falling rock and dies on-screen. "Well out with it."

"I just – I've been wondering for a while now." Mello's gone beet red; this question is either horrendously embarrassing or it's hurting his pride. "How the fuck can you mooch around on your ass all day and play those brain-draining games and still be…" He trails off, fiddling with his hair, which is hanging around his shoulders now. I swear, if he wants to stop being teased for looking like a pansy he should just shave his head or something. Get a crew cut.

"Still be what,_ Mells_?" I tease, lips twitching despite knowing this'll earn me a bruise somewhere. It doesn't, but not from lack of trying: Mello chucks my discarded PS3 controller at my head.

"_Saukerl._" He curls up defensively on my bed, shielding his face with his hair and the pages. I restart the game and manage to fly Kratos through all the debris falling around him. I know exactly what Mello's asking and I know it killed his pride just to voice part of that question out loud. Funny how even after knowing each other for less than a year – the one year we spent not speaking to each other doesn't count – he's willing to swallow his damn ego to do things like this.

I reach the save point and decide he deserves an answer. "Eidetic memory."

He doesn't move or reply, but as the silence stretches out he doesn't turn a page either, so I know he's listening.

"L had me tested after I took first in the rankings. He figured since you practically kill yourself studying and I do nothing at all you ought to have taken first while I just kept rank. Turns out I'm not just randomly able to remember lessons."

The page still hasn't turned. Kratos is bashing a Medusa.

"I don't like answering tests much, though, since they're so tedious, so if I don't feel like answering a question I don't." Oh damn, an armored Minotaur. "You could beat me easily if you just studied like you used to, you know. That first time I took first rank was probably just a fluke."

"…why?" So quiet I almost don't catch it.

Suddenly I pause the game and turn to face Mello, who's still defiantly "reading" his book. Suddenly I'm angry at him for being this insecure, for his undercurrent of accusation, for caring so damn much. Why do they matter so much to the kids in this house, the ranks and scores and successions? Why are they so fought over and sought after, the El Dorado of these kids' lives? "Because I don't want to be L."

Now _that _makes Mello look up. And sputter, to boot. "Don't want to be – what?"

"I hate the idea of sitting around in some godforsaken room, hiding from the rest of the world behind a stupid Gothic letter. Solving things at my leisure, solving things only when no one else can, to make the rest of the world look stupid in comparison. Holding all those enterprises and governments in the palm of my hand just because I can lock up a few people the regular police can't." My hands are clenched around the controller to keep them from shaking too badly. I haven't lost composure like this in… well, I don't even know. "All I want out of life, Mello, is a little fun and a purpose. Not anonymous, arrogant justice."

"L is _not _arrogant!" Mello's standing now, his expression disbelieving and livid. "He's out there risking his life to save the damn world! He brings criminals to justice! He's anonymous because if he wasn't, he'd be dead!" He chucks his book aside and stomps over to me. "Who are _you _to talk about him like that, when all _you _do is wear out your ass playing stupid video games?"

"Why does it matter to you, anyway? Why is being first so damn important?" I'm on my feet too, almost nose-to-nose with Mello. My goggles shield me from the inferno that is the boy on fire. "What's so fucking great about working your ass off only to be someone's replacement, to not have your own identity, to be nothing but a fucking letter to the rest of the world? I don't want to build myself up only to not be my own person at the end of all this."

"Nothing ever matters to you, huh?" The rest of Wammy's must be hearing us by now, but we're both too worked up to care. "Nothing's ever important enough to Matt, with his 175 IQ and his eidetic memory and his technical skills, except whether he'll be able to beat the next level or not! That's okay, because you've never known what it's like to not be good enough, since you just waltz into class with your fucking PSP in hand and pick whatever rank you want to be!"

"There are things that matter to me, Mello, just not _this_!"

"Why are you even the bloody first successor if you don't want it in the first place, then? Why the fuck are you even here?"

"Because I _don't have a bleeding choice, _in case you haven't noticed!"

"Well wake up and smell the roses, Matt, because _none of the rest of us do, either._"

"Yes you do!" I shove him back, hard. It's the first time I've fought him physically, since that first time we met, and it only riles him up more. "You may not be able to cop out of this but you can at least choose not to disappear into the damn system. There's more to life than L, Mello, even if you don't see it!"

His fist comes up and even if I know I can block it – he still can't trounce my ass in our physical education classes, because it's anger against technique between us – I don't. His knuckles crack across my goggles and I let them, because I already know this argument is stupid. I can already feel my anger ebbing away. So I let him floor me, my head cracking on the floor by my PS3; I don't even catch myself. Partly because I don't want to, and partly because I know Mello needs to feel guilt in order to stop fighting. And as the stars clear from my vision, I can see it: the apology in his eyes that will never leave his lips.

It might as well have, because what he _does _say is just as surprising, if not more so.

"What else is there, then?"

From behind my goggles my eyes meet his, and my eidetic memory will make sure I never forget the sight of the boy on fire with his eyes shining, not with unbridled, white-hot anger but with unshed tears. "What else is there for kids like me? I promised I'd be the best for L. Where does that leave me?"

I've just gotten to my feet when he lands another punch that sends me staggering backward. "Isn't it bad enough that I can't ever be my father now? That Benedikt will always be the better son?" Blows punctuate every few words. "Is there no point in making L proud, too?" I don't shield myself. "Well, Matt? Where are all your fine principles now?"

He throws another punch at me but I sidestep it and catch him as he drops off-balance. His body sags in my embrace, the fight draining from him. His chest hitches with dry sobs; even now, he's too proud to shed any tears.

"I couldn't even beat Benedikt," he whispers against my stripes. "Now I can't even beat you."

**-xxxxx-**

The weeks slip by. Mello still studies the nights away in my room. I still spend my hours playing. Neither of us mentions the argument or the embrace, ever.

The only acknowledgement of the argument is the change in rankings that comes two months later. I go right to lunch after class ends while everyone stampedes toward the list. The dining hall fills up little by little as students trickle in, ecstatic or devastated or determined. Linda and Klaus take the places at my table, chattering excitedly about Linda's promotion to fourth (knocking Carmeline to fifth, no wonder she isn't sitting with us). They throw nervous glances at me, and once Linda even opens her mouth as if to say something to me – something important, judging by the look on her face – but in the end just comments about how she hasn't seen me in profiling class lately. I shrug, and she leaves me alone.

By the end of lunch period Mello hasn't shown up, which is an oddity – he knows Wednesdays are chocolate cake days. I leave earlier than usual and check the room – no Mello. Is the bastard actually going to make me _walk around _to look for him? Struck by an idea, I make my way toward the faculty corridor. Sure enough, there's that unmistakable blonde head there. But his thin shoulders are shaking, which can't mean anything good. And I get closer, I see his fist pressed against the glass front of the board, cracks radiating from the point of contact.

I come up behind him and look up at the list, trying to discern what's got him like this. And then I see it.

My name, dropped two whole percentage points, filling in the third rank. Mello's name in second. And Near, only 0.07 points higher than Mello, still in first.

"Is this it, Matt?" Mello whispers, his arm trembling, though for the first time I can't tell why. "Is second all I'm good for?"

In response I just take his wrist and lead him back to my room, sitting him on my toilet while I take out the bottle of disinfectant and the bandages I placed there just for him. Slowly, gently, I wipe away the streaks of blood from his knuckles, bandage them tight. He says nothing, does nothing, just lets me treat him. And as I tuck the end of the bandage in, I feel, strangely, almost like a premonition, that I will be doing this and a lot more for Mello far into the future. The feeling hits me like a truck and my hands slip, dropping the disinfectant bottle.

Mello's hand brushes mine as he beats me to it and picks it up.

"You did it for me, didn't you?" He looks up and his eyes are shining peculiarly. His hand makes toward my goggles and I brace myself to flinch back, hit him if necessary, but all he does is adjust them so they sit on my nose better. "You don't have to answer. Let me think what I want."

I shut up and let him, grateful for his allowance, since I honestly couldn't have answered his question myself.

**-xxxxx-  
>-xxxxx-<strong>

When Roger calls me into his office two days later, my first thoughts are _what the fuck did I do now? _I haven't beat anyone up lately (well, minus Ryder, but he started it, he did); I've been attending class and doing my homework; I haven't even bitched at a teacher. It takes me aback when I see no Roger, but Matt and a laptop on Roger's desk. The Gothic L is prominent on the otherwise white screen.

"Good afternoon, Mello. I apologize for calling you out of class like this." The voice is distorted, just like before. "Matt, I do not feel the need to apologize as you were not even in class when Roger summoned you." I roll my eyes as Matt chuckles. "Mello, please take a seat."

I hesitate, then park my ass next to Matt's on the couch that's magically appeared in Roger's office. I glance at Matt, who shrugs, fingers drumming out some unidentifiable pattern on his lap. He must he aching to play something, but Roger must have forbidden it. I smirk and he throws me the finger.

"Boys." L's voice jolts us back to the current situation. "As you know, I have been observing and have had others observe the both of you and Near as you are all in line to be my successors. As of today, Matt is first in line, Near in second, and Mello third." There's a pause as the L flickers on the screen. I frown. Where is L going with this?

"Matt, I have designated you as my first successor, despite your inherent lack of motivation, because of your potential. You excel at psychology and deduction, and have high technological aptitude, with the capability to rival if not surpass Watari. You are currently the top ammunitions student at the school. With your IQ of 175 I would expect better performance from you, but I have observed you long enough to know that if you show no interest in the area you will not perform to your fullest. In theory you are best suited to becoming L, down to your lack of social impetus."

My grin widens as Matt rolls his eyes this time. Who knew L could possibly have a sense of humor? That or he's utterly serious about this, which makes things even funnier.

"Mello, you are third in the successors not only for your rankings but for your inability to control your emotions. While your performance is excellent, your deductions and reasoning reflect your inability to completely detach yourself from the case before you. You miss details. You overdo. However, your creativity far outstrips that of Near's and Matt's, and you have a tendency to pick unorthodox but highly effective methods, some of which I had not even thought of myself."

I blink, feeling a strange heat creep into my cheeks. Did L just-? In my peripheral vision I see Matt's smug but proud smile and feel a warmth spread through my chest.

"However, it has come to my attention lately that Matt's lack of motivation is apparent even outside the classroom. Watari himself has born witness to an argument between the two of you in which Matt claims he does not wish to succeed me should I, in any event, become incapable of fulfilling my functions. You, Mello, on the other hand, claim to be more than willing. I have given this much thought, as this puzzles me exceedingly, and I have come to the conclusion that I cannot deduce reasons on my own. Therefore, Matt, will you please tell me precisely _why _you do not wish to become L?"

Beside me, Matt's stiff as a board, his cheeks splotchy. I'm probably red myself. Neither of us thought about the repercussions of our argument; it never even really occurred to us that other people would hear, much less Watari. Matt opens his mouth once, twice, but doesn't answer.

"Matt?" L presses.

"I-" Matt's fingers drum and fidget faster. "It just doesn't seem…worth it."

"I see." The tension in the air is almost palpable. Matt's a little on edge, a rare thing – it takes a lot to break his composure. "Is there anything that may change your mind about this?"

My anxiety and confusion heighten. What is L trying to say-? I don't dare glance at Matt, but he utters a resolute "no." There's a tremor in his voice, though, that I'm sure L notices.

"Very well then." _Scheiss _– is Matt going to be expelled from Wammy's? All because he doesn't want to be L? That _dummkopf – _he should have just said he didn't know!

"Matt, henceforth you are now second in the successors. I do not wish for your complete removal as you are still exceptionally talented, though you do not take advantage of this fact as much as I would like. If ever in the future you change your mind, please know that you are my preferred choice." Wait – Matt – second? Matt is _second? _It's only Matt's hand on my arm – how did he know to get a hold of me? – that prevents me from rising in anger. That means – now Near is first in successorship, too? Bullshit-! "Mello. Before you let your temper get the better of you, please let me finish."

I grit my teeth, feeling like a scolded child, but take my seat.

"While Near outperforms you academically and logically, you have a far greater advantage in the areas that _do _require emotional investment, particularly criminal profiling and creative thinking. Your capability to think in many ways – even like a criminal – is a useful asset. Sometimes, intense involvement in cases is not such a bad thing." I can almost _hear _the smile in his voice. His words somehow calm me down. "Take care simply to not miss seeing the important details or the bigger picture.

"I have spoken to Watari and Roger about this, and while they both agree that you and Near are highly capable students, both well on the way to succeeding me should the need arise, it is impossible for them to decide who is more deserving. You are incapable of separating emotion from logic, and Near is unwilling to take necessary risks and is unable to think outside the strategic."

Nothing in the world could prepare me for the next words that come from those speakers.

"I have therefore decided to keep you both in line as my first successor, until such time that I can analyze you both thoroughly enough to select he who is better suited to become the next L."

It feels like the wind's been knocked out of me. Or maybe like a train's hit me at full speed. Or maybe I'm dead. Tied with Near – that little _sheep_? I finally make first place and I have to bloody fucking _share_? Where does that leave my promise now? L can just take his bloody decision and shove it up his-

"You may dismiss them now, Roger. Our business has been concluded."

A hand grips my shoulder. Matt's tugging me up, trying to get me out, but I'm still too shocked and outraged over L's decision – he didn't even _ask _if I was okay with it – to move properly. Roger's standing off to the side, looking appropriately nervous. I must look bloody murder right now. I definitely feel it. It's bad enough coming in _second _to that stupid little pajama-wearing puffball – now I have to _share _the rights to the title of L with _him_? What the bloody _fuck_?

"Mello, come _on…_"

I let Matt drag me out of Roger's office and down the corridor, up to his room. I'm shaking, standing on his stupid carpet, fighting to stop these damn _tears _of frustration that are making their way down my cheeks. No fucking _way _– not in a million years – bloody fucking _Near-_

Matt's slap to my face catches me off guard.

I retaliate without a second thought, landing a punch on his cheek. Another follows to his gut. And suddenly I'm flying at him, fists wheeling, anger seeping out of my every pore. And he just stands there, taking every bloody one of my punches like they're gifts, holding me against the damned wall as I struggle against his grip. Spit collects on his skin and I even rip his shirt but he _takes it all._

"_Gottverdammt, _Matt" – my chest heaves, my cheeks are tear-streaked and my knuckles are bruising from all the blows – "why won't you fight back?"

And it's de ja vu because his arms are around me, holding me steady, holding me _up, _and ridiculous though it may be, I find myself thinking that for a lazy, skinny gamer boy, Matt feels so solid. So constant and secure.

Suddenly second's not so bad, if it means having Matt beneath me to keep me aloft.

There's a rustle and Matt's pushing me back, shoving something into my hand. I look down and laugh. It's a bloody fucking Green and Blacks chocolate bar.

"I figured if I threw a punch, you'd head off on a bitch fit and I wouldn't be able to give you that." He's on his floor, booting up his Xbox with one hand, drawing out a CD case with another. He isn't looking at me but I catch the upward tilt of his lips. I put the chocolate bar down.

"Toss me the other one," I say, settling down next to him. He looks at me in surprise, frozen in the middle of pulling out a one-person shooting game. His eyes search my face – probably waiting for the catch – but I motion with my hands and he smiles. A genuine smile that soon turns into the goofiest grin I've ever seen. He probably doesn't get this too often. A second controller comes sailing out and the shooting game changes to a fighting one. The console beeps to life as Matt flexes his fingers and I try to figure out what I need to press.

I end up losing badly, multiple times, but it's worth it to hear Matt's silly laugh, even if it's at my expense (especially when my character ends up punching air for five minutes while Matt sends ball after ball of magic at my back, killing me in seconds; I now _hate _this game). There are bruises starting to form on his skin and there's a thin scratch showing under the tear in his sleeve. But he says nothing and neither do I, not even as I curl up on his bed and he settles down on his bean bag, goggles glinting in the moonlight.

My last conscious thought is that while Near's got all the logic and analytics of the bunch, I'm still better off because I've got someone like Matt.

**-xxxxx-**

_**A/N **Too cheesy of an ending? Did too much happen? O_o Because this thing is 7 pages and 4000 words long… I'm worried I should have cut it somewhere up there. But the words just kept coming out!_

_R&R, anyone?_


	10. Hacks and Stories

_**A/N **For xinde, who's just about flooded my email inbox with reviews and private messages about my stories, and about Death Note in general. I don't mind, though; your wonderful ramblings keep me writing and remind me that it's the quality and not quantity of reviews and readers that really matters. And xinde, you are top quality._

_Also for the anonymous reviewer who said she loved my story since it hit home. I'm glad this makes you happy and I will continue to write this to the end. Between you and xinde, I don't think I'll run out of motivation to do so._

_Chapter time! Long chapter is long._

**xxxxxxxxxx**

The next time I see Near doesn't bode well for either of us. It's three days after L's oh-so-_wonderful _announcement and he's playing in the common room, solving a white Rubik's cube with Braille printed on the squares, the fucking show-off. His hands move the rows and columns methodically, the mechanical clicking of the toy smooth and continuous. A neat pyramid of already-solved cubes – all varying in type and difficulty – sits in front of him

The common room goes completely silent, all eyes going from me to Near to me to Near. I can feel, rather than see, some eyes flick to the void beside me where a certain successor usually stands, slouched, idly playing his games. But he isn't there and so there's no one to hold me back as I stomp over to Near, pretending to need something in a shelf behind him. I make sure to knock over his goddamn pile on the way; one of the cubes even cracks beneath my feet.

I smirk at the shelves of toys and books in front of me, pretending to be looking for something. My momentary satisfaction disappears in a snap when Near speaks.

"Mello's bullying will not raise his esteem in L's eyes."

_That little-!_

Quick as a whip I'm turned around, left foot lashing out in a kick that sends the toppled pyramid scattering all over the room. Near ducks in time to avoid my foot, but not fast enough to dodge a few cubes that catch him in the face and chest. Before he can recover I've shifted my center of gravity, this time using my right to land a kick to his ribs. A punch soon follows; that'll give him a nice shiner, give him something on him that isn't fucking white. I'm about to double my assault when something neatly trips my ankles. Before I hit the floor, familiar arms catch me.

Matt says nothing as he drags me away from the common room, ignoring my obvious fuming and my struggles. I break his hold once – no mean feat, even for me, since Matt, though not the strongest, has a very solid grip – but he catches me before I get very far. He wrestles me into the thankfully near physical education department. As soon as the door closes behind us he releases me – and trips me again.

Then commences a routine we've long established. I lash out, fighting with every instinct, pulling out every trick I've ever learned from every martial art I've studied. And Matt catches and blocks and sidesteps almost every blow without landing any himself, like some crazy whackjob_ sensei. _We dance around each other until my fury's exhausted and he's half-dead with exertion. Then I stomp off to shower in the locker room while he catches his breath, playing a game on top of the pile of rubber mats.

As the hot water pounds on my shoulders I think, not for the first time, that there will probably be no one else who'll take all the crap I dish out like Matt does. No one who'll willingly let me use them as a punching bag and stress ball, no one who'll be able to read me so well he knows just when to show up, when to interfere, when to leave me the hell alone. I wonder again why the hell he puts up with all this – it's not for lack of friends, Matt's liked well enough if thought a little weird – then cut my thoughts off completely. Overthinking and overanalyzing just gets me riled up again.

It's not with a little surprise that I exit the locker rooms to find not just Matt, but Watari waiting for me. I look at Matt for an explanation but he just shrugs. Watari doesn't look angry; in fact, there's a hint of amusement in the slight curve of his lips. But there's a concern in his eyes I can't place, and this worries me.

"Mello,' he says, "please follow me."

I glance automatically at Matt, who I know is listening despite his "concentration" on his PSP. Before I get anything out of him, Watari follows my gaze. "Matt will not be coming with us."

I nod once, feeling oddly disappointed – or scared – and follow Watari out of the room. Matt follows us until he has to turn a different corner, heading off to his room. I'm expecting Watari to lead me to Roger's office for the mother of all lectures on what I did to Near, but instead he leads me to the side office I entered only once before, the first day I came to Whammy's. He gestures for me to enter and departs. I watch him disappear down the corridor and turn toward the door. Hesitantly, nervously, I open it.

Inside sits a chocolate feast and L, in the flesh, devouring a large ice cream parfait. I don't know what to think at first – will he drop me from the successorship because of what I did? Am I being expelled? Suspended? Transferred? I'm so wrapped up in my increasingly hysterical thoughts that I barely catch L's "please sit." And even then, it takes me a while to remember how to move.

"I am not expelling you, Mello." L doesn't look up from his ice cream, but I don't doubt that he doesn't miss the relief that immediately floods me, relaxing my posture and bringing a smile to my face. "Nor am I suspending you or relieving you of your place in my successors." He waves a hand toward all the chocolate. "Please take some."

"Thank you," I manage, helping myself to some cake.

"No doubt your mind has by now exhausted all variations of the 'you getting into trouble' scenario and though you are relieved that your position in this house is not in jeopardy, you are still confused as to why you are here." L looks at me from across the table in such intense scrutiny that I can't help looking down at myself, as if my loose black shirt and jeans will tell me why L reads me so easily. "Roger is fairly itching to give you a scolding for what you have done to Near, and though I find the act juvenile and aggressive, I understand you were provoked. You cannot also be too happy with Near at the moment, given my recent announcement. I will let this incident slide, and simply remind you not to resort to physical violence, since what Near said is correct – it will not heighten your rank or press me to choose you over him."

The cake is sour in my mouth as I hear those words. Well-meaning and, well, accurate they may be, they sting something awful and part of me would rather a hiding from Roger than this. It's hard enough for me to admit that Near was right on my own; to hear it from L himself is devastating.

"You are upset about this, to say the least, I am sure." L finishes his ice cream and starts dipping fruit into a large pot of melted chocolate. "And you shall continue to be so even if I tell you not to be. So instead, I shall proceed to the main reason for calling you here." His tongue licks off the chocolate from a strawberry. "You have no more classes for the day, I am correct?"

I nod, sitting ramrod straight. Whatever this is, it sounds important. This is a chance to show L that I'm damn better than robo-Near.

"Excellent." L drops maybe seven sugar cubes into his cup of tea. "Mello, are you familiar with B?"

To say his question caught me off-guard would be like saying Matt finds some enjoyment in playing video games – it's a gross understatement. Of course I'm familiar with B – everyone at Whammy's is, he's infamous; he's the reason no kid who comes here ever gets a name starting with B – but what does this have to do with anything? Why would L want to talk to me about B?

"Your silence and expression informs me that you are acquainted with the story." L's thumb comes up to stroke his bottom lip as he eyes me. "I'm sure the general points have been discussed in this house. But the details?"

I shake my head.

"Very well then. Please make yourself comfortable; I'm certain this will take the better part of the afternoon to tell. Matt will be informed of your absence; I'm sure it won't kill him to be apart from you for one night."

As I wiggle around in my chair a little, chest slightly puffed at the thought of spending a _whole afternoon _with L, hearing his detective stories, I barely miss the jibe he makes about Matt. When it does catch, I look up to find L smiling slightly, fixing me with the most inscrutable gaze I've ever seen.

**xxxxxxxxxx**  
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When someone knocks on the door, interrupting my Harry Potter game, my mind skitters through the possibilities before deciding it's Watari. I open the door with what I hope is a mildly surprised expression, but the old man sees right through it.

"You do not seem very surprised to see me," he comments with a wry smile. "Would you care to tell me why?"

The look in his eyes tells me this is a dead serious question. I hesitate a moment before answering. "Well, it can't have been Roger, the knock wasn't aggressive enough. It's also too low – Roger usually knocks level with his head. You knock at chest height. Roger uses a fist, three or more bangs; you used perhaps two, three fingers, bent, and two sharp taps. The other orphans wouldn't knock, and L wouldn't even come here. Also, you recently escorted Mello, I presume to Roger's office – you'd likely be informing me of his prolonged absence or escorting him back. Or asking me to take him to the infirmary." And I have the video feed of Whammy's security hacked on my laptop at the moment, but he doesn't need to know that, does he?

"It is a shame you don't put these deductive skills to more use, Matt." Watari's eyes have a mischievous twinkle, something strange and yet pleasant in a man of his age. "Though I have seen that you have put your more…technologically-related skills to good use. Surely watching the other orphans is not your style of entertainment?"

The heat creeps into my cheeks. Before I can stop myself, I look behind me. The laptop's sitting innocently on my desk, turned toward the bed, not the door. How did he-?

"You did not honestly expect me not to notice you in my system, did you, Matt?" There's a laugh in Watari's voice now. "Don't worry, as long as you don't try to change anything drastic I'll let you in as you please. The Whammy's system is not exactly a federal secret."

I give what I hope is a sheepish grin. In my head I'm already running through all the patches and systems I can reprogram to make myself more undetectable. I can rewrite the codes for a few, upgrade a handful, maybe even start a new one from scratch-

"Before we let that hacking mind of yours get ahead of itself trying to figure out how to get in undetected, let me explain my reason for being here." Stupid old mind-reading man. Still, some part of me is curious.

"What?"

"Mello will be spending much of the evening with L in the office. It is a private discussion, one I know L will ask Mello not to inform you of. I also ask that you not pry into the details, since there is no longer a guarantee that Mello will keep his promise if it is you who asks." Watari has to suppress a smile at that last remark; I don't know if I should be embarrassed or amused. I mean, he _does _have a point.

…hang on. Is there an implication somewhere in there-

"While Mello is preoccupied, I have something for you to do. If you will follow me?"

Something tells me this is more than something academic- or punishment-related. I unpause, save and shut off my game, close the laptop, pocket a PSP and amble after Roger down the hall. To my surprise he leads me to the technology department, to the room at the very end of the hall no one's allowed to enter. He taps in a security code – 09664537, I wonder if that changes every time or can I use it to get in later? – and gestures for me to enter. I peer inside – and nearly faint in delight.

The room is technological dream. High-definition, 24-inch monitors form a line down one wall, leading to a keyboard-and-tablet setup with a holographic projection plate. There are CPUs blinking all along the floor, surround-sound speakers up on the corners, and gadgets I've never seen in my entire life. The left wall is dominated by a giant flat-screen. To the right is a small shelf full of laptops. Power cords litter the floor. The room looks very, very techie-badass.

I kind of have to stop myself from screaming like an overly-caffeinated, sugar-high fangirl at a cosplay convention.

"Welcome, Matt, to the heart of Whammy's House security. From here you can access all the video feeds of the cameras, as well as the files of the orphans, the cases of L, and even what Roger's planning for Christmas. The security code changes every day, but don't worry. After today you'll have your way of accessing this room whenever you please – provided, of course, that you perform."

I barely hear the old geezer as I take in gadget heaven I've just stepped in. I bet that screen's touch-operated – and a fucking _holographic projection plate. _I've only ever seen YouTube videos of its conceptualization! The laptops range from pristine white Macs to small black HPs and oh my god are those custom laptop parts? Someone pinch me. "Perform?"

"Come here." Watari moves to the right wall and picks up a base frame for a motherboard. "Your teachers have informed me that despite the advanced placement they have given you, you seem rather bored in your technology classes. The students I have surveyed note that you, er, 'kick techie ass.'" I burst out laughing at the ridiculous statement coming from the dignified old Watari. Kick techie ass? I fucking _own _the techs in this school. I program circles around my professo- "Since nothing in the curriculum seems to motivate you apart from ammunitions and technology, and even then you are barely performing to your level, L has decided to challenge you."

_That _catches my attention. A challenge? It's not like I've got much to do…

"You have," and here Watari actually brings out an honest-to-god _pocket watch, _as if he couldn't be old-fashioned enough, "precisely eight hours to build a laptop to your liking and hack into the Whammy's House system _completely. _All the equipment you need is in this room, though if ever you feel you need more, there is an intercom behind the door that connects to my room. We will supply parts to your liking. You will only be allowed to use what you have constructed; touch not the other computers in the room. If, at the end of the eight hours, you are able to tell me Mello's real name and my identity, you will have successfully passed L's challenge."

Holy fuck I get to build my own laptop! I wonder if I can keep i – hold on, _Mello's real name? _And _Watari's identity? _Watari has identities other than, well…Watari? Maybe he was a Whammy's House kid too, and Watari's his alias. Then that would mean – that would mean…

"But we're not allowed to know." It slips out before I can stop myself. It's not that I don't _want _to know (because I do, I really do, I hope Watari has a really stupid name in real life – or a really badass one), but, well, part of me feels like it's wrong. Especially Mello's name. I've barely known the guy a year, I don't even know what his favorite color is. And, well...I'll have his real name with me, but he'll never have mine.

Why do I even care about the fairness, anyway?

"L is giving you permission, Matt." Watari fixes an unfathomable gaze on me. "However, if you are uncomfortable with the task or unwilling to do it, we will understand."

_If you're not up to it, _is what I'm hearing. This is a challenge to my skills, a test – and perhaps, in its way, a punishment for refusing to be L. If tech is the only thing I want to be good at, then L wants to see just how good I can get. And I think Mello's rubbing off on me, because – "I'll do it." Damn pride.

"Eight hours, Matt." Watari smiles, and gestures toward the parts. "I will be watching."

When the door closes behind him, I survey the room and the high from all the gadgets surrounding me returns. Mello may have all the deductive skills and Near the logic, but _this _is my domain. Hell no am I letting Watari think I'm not that good.

And it's a free pass to hack into the Whammy system. Maybe I can edit Roger's Christmas plans to something more of my liking. Or order myself a bunch of new games on his credit card. Hey, maybe I can order him something really embarrassing, like penis enhancers or a hooker or –

The intercom behind me crackles to life. "Matt? Eight hours."

Oh, right.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Seven and a half hours later, I've built a laptop to the best of my abilities (I just ended up customizing one of the existing ones; I mean, it's not like we're taught how to build computers here) and have run nine different cracking and patching programs on the Whammy's system. I've gotten further than ever, cracking open files and programs I never did before. I found out the information Watari needed ages ago; now I'm just exploring. I've even gotten into Watari's private files. Who knew he had a villa in Tuscany?

My back hurts like a bitch and even with the goggles on, my eyes are painful, so I stand up, stretch – ahhh, that feels good – and go over to the intercom.

"Mr. Whammy?" I call, pressing on the little red button. "I'm done."

Almost immediately afterward the door opens (I barely have enough time to step back and avoid being smacked), revealing Watari – aka Mr. Whammy – eyes twinkling and mouth smiling. "Well done, Matt."

"It's always been a theory," I shrug. "And it's Mihael Keehl."

"Indeed." Watari's smile broadens. "I do think, Matt, that if I were in a position to choose successors, my number one choice would be you, and L can pout all he wants about having to share."

We laugh together at that, and I find myself warming more to this old man – who I know is a technological genius in his own right; his inventions and patents are what fund this orphanage – than I ever did and will to L and Roger. And hey, if I could pick who I'd succeed, I'd definitely want to be Watari more than L.

"As a reward for doing so well and in so short a time," Watari continues – and catches my sheepish grin. "Oh, don't think I didn't notice, Matt. You had the information I wanted well within the first five hours of your work. But I allowed you to do as you please – and will continue to do so from now on." He gestures towards my homemade laptop. "This laptop is now yours. It will be the only computer outside this room, aside from my own, that shall have full access to the Whammy's House system. Instead of taking your technology classes, I have informed Roger that you will be working on programs to improve the Whammy's security – and potentially on some of the more technological aspects of L's cases." That catches me off-guard. I'm just a student – hell, I still have to become a _teenager. _"You can check the system everyday for the password to this room should you wish to use it."

"Well, er…thanks." It's all I can manage. Why are they doing this – letting me in so freely? Do they think it'll change my mind?

"You are no mere genius, Matt, and I'm sure you realize that by now." Watari eyes me sharply. "Such a high IQ partnered with your eidetic memory could get you so far. It is only your severe lack of motivation that curtails you. I do wish you would perform more to your level."

"Doesn't seem like I need to now, does it?" I cock an eyebrow at the old guy, who chuckles.

"You may return to your room now, Matt. Mello is waiting."

I take one more longing glance at the technological marvels before me before picking up my new laptop and leaving. True enough, Mello's there, absentmindedly sucking on the corner of a chocolate bar. He looks up as if startled, then fixes his expression to one of mild boredom. "Where you get to?"

"Watari had something for me to do." I understood – between Watari's words – that just as Mello's meeting with L was not to be shared with me, what Watari had me do could not be shared with Mello. "Have fun with L?"

"It was informative." We stare around the room awkwardly for a few moments, me shuffling on my feet and him cross-legged on my bed. "New laptop?"

"Yeah." I set it down on my table like it's made of glass. It's a bit haphazard and could probably be better, but it's all mine. My baby. Ew, that sounded weird. "I'm heading to bed. You?"

"Yeah." He gets up and opens his mouth, and for a moment he looks like he wants to say something very serious, but in the end just says, "good night" and leaves the room.

As the door closes I get a slight chill down my spine. It's up now, the first wall of secrets between us, like the door separating us right now – though Mello doesn't know exactly how big the wall is. I know everything: his real name, his past, how L brought him here. I know and I can't give him the same.

"Good night, Mihael," I mutter as I tug off my goggles and fall onto the bed, not bothering to undress. All the secrets and hacking and new information have plumbed me out.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

_**A/N **Again, long chapter is long. 6 pages, 4000 words. I know I said I'd timeskip here, but I realized – this chapter is important! It shows how Mello knows about B, and… well, you'll see why I had to do that to Matt._

_I hope whoever readers are out there enjoy this chapter! I'll try to get the next one up v. soon. R&R, please and thank you!_


	11. Gone

_**A/N **Thank you to all those who reviewed! I'll get the next chapter up while I'm procrastinating things, hehe. Timeskip's here too. Enjoy!_

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Whammy's House is pretty quiet at midnight.

"L, are you certain our actions today are vital?"

One sugar cube after another disappears into a cup of coffee. "Mello is the type of child who desperately needs a hero, a standard with which to measure himself. Following the murder of his father, the disappearance of his brother, and the suicide of his mother, he has chosen to fixate himself with me. This is a natural reaction for most orphans brought to Whammy's House, but Mello's ambitions root deeper and reach farther. He will never stop pushing himself until he is guaranteed my title, because to be the next L for certain means he is the best." Fingers awkwardly hold a spoon to stir. "I have seen worse levels of obsession, Watari, and this is the only way I know how to curtail Mello's before he gets out of hand. I do not wish for another B."

"And Matt?"

"Having him improve your systems from here will free up your schedule to focus on other things. Matt will take care of Whammy's security, of that I am sure. He has a mischievous streak, yes, but I am certain he will not deal any severe damage. He is far too lazy. He has his pride as the top tech student, and a passion for these things. It is also an excellent learning opportunity."

"But why did you allow this in the first place? He has full access to the system; he can know anything about any student in this orphanage. You even had him find out the proprietor of this orphanage is me."

"Matt can guard secrets. I am almost 100% sure." Pale lips sip the sludge-like concoction in the cup. "And I am also almost 100% sure he will need this entry to the system in the future. Let him be."

I watch this all from the safety of my room. This new laptop's working fine, though I think during my next tech class – since I _think _Watari said I didn't have to attend any longer, thank Zelda – I'll spruce it up more. The whole of Whammy's House is at my fingertips, including the little side office where L and Watari are now.

Is this what power-hungry dictator-types feel like when they finally know the country is wrapped around their pinky? Because _man _it feels awesome! I actually did a little celebratory jig a while ago to the theme of Lord of the Rings, which _really _made me feel good and – anyway, moving on.

This revelation is a little overwhelming, to say the least. I'd found it odd that Watari gave me free access to the house security without batting an eye; hell, I'm only 11. To see and hear L have such faith in me is incredibly weighty – what if I cock up? I may be good but I'm nothing exceptional – but it brings a goofy grin to my face. I'll have to admit, it's an honor to be trusted this much by L, to have this entire orphanage in my keeping. Though I bet Watari's still going to keep tabs on the system and improve whatever I do and make sure I'm not sending his security to the dogs. It's his beloved orphanage after all. Or, one of them, anyway.

I'd come up with several theories myself but not this. I wonder why L thinks I'll need this system in the future. And why he's so sure of me. And I wonder… Actually I think I'll stop wondering and sleep.

**xxxxxxxxxx**  
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I actually feel a little bad, not telling Matt what L told me, but L said that I couldn't tell anyone the story until… well, apparently I'd know. Last night's encounter with Matt in his room was awkward to say the least, though it seemed he'd had some secret rendezvous with Watari himself.

…_scheiss, _that sounded disgusting.

_If I had a boner right now, that thought would have killed it instantly._

The next few years pass by almost normally. I study my ass off in Matt's room and still can't beat Near. I lead the profiling and special cases, and in ammunitions come in close second to Matt, who, with being placed in advanced-advanced placement all on his own, lets us eat his technological dust, but overall Near's still first. Between the three of us we rule the house academe – Linda doesn't even come close to Matt's score, no matter how little Matt tries to actually maintain it – and we've each got our mini-domains as well. Near monopolizes the toy chest, Matt can program circles around your ass and kick anyone's butt at any game, and I…well Matt keeps trying to get me to keep my anger in check. But I've far outstripped the red belt ranks I had in martial arts from before Whammy's. I've even far outstripped my _sensei._ In my defense, whopping ass is a useful skill.

Then came in the case that changed the orphanage: Kira. Even all the way in England, in a small, exclusive orphanage, we could feel the shudder that rocked the world as a huge wave of dying criminals crashed onto it. Deaths by heart attacks with no explanations – no motive, no discernable causes, no nothing – and the world's police force was paralyzed, unable to stop it. We all knew it was only a matter of time before L stepped in. This was the kind of case he could never ignore.

And step in he did, but not before coming to Whammy's one last time. He had me, Near and Matt called into Roger's office. I still remember the sight of him, standing by the window, hunched over and barefoot, thumb rubbing his lower lip. Panda eyes gazing out into the distance, seeing something none of the rest of us could. The great detective L.

"I am leaving," was all he'd said, gesturing to three letters on the table. One envelope had an N, one an M, and strangely, one a J. He'd nodded at Near, patted my head – I almost squealed; _why _do I have to be such a girl sometimes – and beckoned Matt to follow him. I'd never seen Near show much emotion, but this act was enough for the shock to register on his face. Not that I was much better off. We were the top successors – what the flying fuck did L want with _Matt?_

Apparently Matt had known – knew – because he'd followed L, picking up the envelope with a J on it. Watari had led us out of the room, each of us clutching our letters, instructing us not to open them until the time was right. I made my way back to my room – the room I shared with Matt; Roger had pulled a house exception and stuck us together since Matt was so good at calming me down and heaven knows the orphanage needed me calm – in total confusion. And panic. Lots of panic. Because the way L had said his goodbye…made it seem like he might not come back.

I didn't know how to feel about that. Still don't.

Matt had come back to the room an hour after I had, silent, his expression not the usual one of boredom. There had been a seriousness to him, and something else I hadn't been able to see behind the goggles. But he'd said nothing and so I'd said nothing, and we continued from there as if nothing had happened – except the secrets between us had grown. We were close but nothing special; I had other friends and Matt did as he pleased. But this time we _knew _the other had secrets and we knew they could not be told.

Awareness does strange things to a human psyche, or so I've learned in psychology and profiling classes.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

The day "Lind L. Taylor" posed a challenge to Kira over the television was by far the scariest day of my life. My father's death enraged me, my mother's death left me numb, my brother's disappearance could eat itself, but L so blatantly flaunting his anonymity like that on national television shook me to my core. It was brave, it was reckless, it was sheer _genius _and it had scared the shit out of me, because for a second I was scared, so scared, that right then and there, Kira, whose modus operandi we had no clue about, would win.

When Lind L. Taylor toppled from his chair it was as if I was feeling his heart attack, the way something squeezed in my gut. And then that familiar, distorted voice rang out, challenging Kira. Kill me, kill me, kill me.

I was so relieved that L was alive that I went and beat up three punching bags and this unfortunate kid in the training room to expend my joy.

The case progressed and the tension at Whammy's House increased. The very fact that L was under threat from someone who could kill just with a fucking name and face was bringing us to the brink. Even with all his precautions and pseudonyms and safeguards, L could go at any moment, leaving behind an orphanage full of children trained to be him. And while we strove to be that Gothic letter, fought among each other to try and prove ourselves worthy, I don't think any of us seriously considered what would happen to us if he did die. And what would happen after someone took his place.

I didn't – don't – want to consider it. We were all here for the sole purpose of impressing him, making him want us. You'd be taking away our purpose in life if you took him. We were geniuses but we weren't _ready._

Watari had asked me and Near to keep tabs on the Kira case – gather information, hunt for clues, observe the deaths and broadcasts. I did this religiously, poring over case notes and news articles like they were a bible. I don't know what L told Matt, but as the months went by he disappeared more and more frequently, eventually even staying out of the room overnight. It didn't bother me so much (it meant I could study without constant _take that, bitch! _and _yeah, you like a chainsaw up your ass? _in my ear, stupid gamer talk – why do people feel the need to fucking cuss out characters on-screen, anyway?), but it _did _have me wondering.

"Out for another late night, Matty?" This was one and a half months ago, when my curiosity hit its boiling point and bubbled over. I'd tried for more subtle routes, but Matt insisted on being secretive and it was killing me. This had to do with L, I knew it. Matt knew how important successorship was to me and _he wasn't telling me anything._

My sense of entitlement gets the better of me, sometimes.

"Probably." He'd picked up his laptop and left without another word.

Three weeks ago I tried to tail him, only to get caught. (I swear, that kid has the hearing of a bat – my sock feet can't make _that _much noise. I didn't even fucking take a chocolate bar with me!) One week later I tailed him again and succeeded. He'd been heading to the room at the back of the tech hall students weren't allowed to go in. He seemed to key something in – shit, was he hacking the Whammy systems now? – and went inside.

Now, everything about the situation was screaming _MATT IS FUCKING DOING SOMETHING AGAINST THE FUCKING RULES OF THIS FUCKING HOUSE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING NIGHT_ but then again, this was the tech department. I padded as quietly as I could down the hall, toward the door. I was right; there was a keypad-and-lock system. I couldn't get in without a code, and trying arbitrarily would be pointless since a wrong code could trigger an alarm. I could wait for Matt to get out but that might take ages and he wouldn't be very happy. Sighing, I returned to the room.

Except now he's just left and I find I just _can't _let it go, no matter how much I tell myself to leave well alone. Matt doesn't pry into my Kira research, I shouldn't pry into his…whatever this is. But he _knows_, he goddamn well knows I spend my nights trying to dig up anything about this psychopathic Japanese mass-murderer, but I know squat about what he does except it's got to do with computers. He could have a gaming sanctuary in there or a mass orgy and I wouldn't know _anything._

"_Scheisskopf!_" I crumple another candy wrapper savagely in my fist. That's the fifth chocolate bar this hour, but I'm just so _exasperated. _I can't focus on this criminology paper, I can't read the latest article about Kira worshippers, and I can't bloody well even eat my chocolate properly because the _snap _vaguely reminds me of the _clacks _of an Xbox controller. Snarling, I shove all my books off the desk (creating a nice, big mess that I will undoubtedly have Matt clean up for me tomorrow, sedentary gamer body be damned) and fling open the door. Little bastard's got something and I want to know what it is. _I'm _the one in the fucking first successor position (Near can go fuck himself with a robot). _I _should be doing the secret L-related things. _Matt _is just bloody third in rankings and the second successor and – oh, just _fuck him._

When I get to the door he's been hiding behind I'm fuming so much I don't bother to be quiet. Instead, I hammer on the door, creating nice loud bangs that are sure to be heard all over the house. I don't bother yelling; he's sure to know it's me. Still, it takes a while before the door finally opens.

"I don't know what the bloody fuck you're playing at, Matt, but if you don't tell me what's going on _now _I'll-"

The rest of my sentence is lost the minute I catch the expression on his face. Matt is normally an uncaring guy; the way he looks suggests he's bored with the real world since the virtual one can offer so much more. He slips sometimes, loses a little of his composure, but he only snaps with good reason – and even then, it's only happened twice. I've seen him laugh, I've seen him screech in triumph, I've seen him tired and I've seen him try and tolerate all the juvenile stupidity around him, but I've never seen him pale and shaking slightly and – is he hyperventilating?

"Matt?" I kinda forget why I'm angry; he just looks so…shaken. Tentatively I reach out to him (but not without sneaking a glimpse at what I've wanted to see these past months – a room full of the best technology the world has to offer; no wonder Matt spends all his time here) but the movement doesn't bring a reaction from him. In fact, it's not until my hand is around his arm and I jiggle his shoulder a bit that he snaps out of his daze.

"Me – Mello?" He looks at me as if seeing me for the first time, as if I'm some alien species come to life out of one of his precious games. I want to make a snappy comeback to that but it's Matt, he's not normally like this, so I force myself to swallow my annoyance.

"What's with you?" I search his face, his body language, but all they're telling me is he's shocked and confused and maybe…maybe a little scared. Not for the first time I want to yank those dumbass goggles off his face so I could just _see _him for once – all of him – but I think right now he might react like a frightened rabbit or something.

"Mello," he repeats, and finally moves. One hand comes up and brushes against my hair; his fingers graze my jaw. Then he pushes me aside, hard, so much that I topple and have to catch myself on the door frame. When I've regained my balance and my focus I see him sprinting down the hall with a speed I didn't think was possible for Matt. Not unless there was a free-for-all at the gaming store or Squall Leonhart suddenly appeared before him.

He makes it back to the room before I do, something I didn't expect would happen even with the head start he got. He's locked the door; I can hear shuffling and thumps inside. "Matt, let me in."

There's no response. I don't even have the room key on me, didn't think I'd need it when I'd left. I settle for rattling the knob. "_Gottverdammt, _open the damn door, Matt!"

There's a loud _crack _but still the door remains locked. "Matt, I swear, if you do not let me in now I will fucking break every stupid gaming system you have in there when I _do _find a way in and then you'd better run for your worthless life because you will be next-"

The door unlocks with a soft _click _and opens a few millimeters. I only see the room through the crack, the room that's eerily silent. I push the door open, an ominous dread settling into my gut, and with good reason The room is devoid of life_._

No Matt. His bed's a mess, his gaming systems littered all over the floor, a sure sign that something's wrong – Matt handles them as if they were gossamer-thin glass. All his plug-in consoles are there but the portables – a Gameboy, a PSP and a DS, all of which usually reside on his dresser – are absent. He's left most of his computers but the laptop he brought back with him that day I was with L is gone. The closet doors are open, hangers and pieces of clothing strewn haphazardly on the floor, but not enough for me not to see that a good number are missing. His sneakers are under the bed, but his boots aren't. His bean bag is all squished up in a corner. The window by his bed – the one that opens to the tree, the one he never unfastens because it brings him closer to nature than he'd like – is wide open.

The November wind rustles through the leaves and brings a cold into the room that chills me to the bone. No Matt.

I cross the room in a stupor, uncertain if I'm really seeing what I'm seeing. The emotional side of me is reeling but the logical side is telling me that Matt ran in here, packed up whatever he thought he couldn't do without, and upped and left via the window. There aren't any screams of agony so I know he made it down the tree okay. I stepped over some rope and tape and weights when I entered the room, which is probably how Matt unlocked the door from the inside. I climb onto his bed, glance out the window. Some branches are snapped, others bent in odd ways. There's a small scattering of twigs, branches and leaves at the foot of the tree.

No Matt.

Why the bloody flying fucking hell do I even give a damn if he's gone?

The first thing to hit the wall is his beloved fucking PS3, that stupid gift from L for being the goddamn first successor. Next is the Xbox, the one we played together that one night, cracking open with a satisfying snap. Then his precious Macbook. His desktop's CPU. I kick the TV to the floor. Stomp all over the CD cases. Then I begin to tear his notebooks apart, the doodles and lack of notes sickening. All the reminders of how this goddamn boy was better than me, how he was goddamn _underperforming, _how I tried to be his friend and he went and _fucked me over _and just _left _without me even knowing _why-_

…hold on.

There's something red on my pillow, making a tiny dent, holding down a slip of paper. I don't need to be the genius I am to know it's from Matt. Part of me wants to break the thing, toss it around just like I did everything else he owns – but this thing is so obviously for me. Unlike the hurried mess he left behind, this is very deliberate.

_Calm down and think, blondie. _I can hear his voice in my head, feel those solid arms around me, restraining me – and holding me up.

If shoulder angels and devils existed, now would be the perfect time for them to appear.

_Goddamn you, Stripes. _I walk over to my bed and pick it up.

To my surprise, it's a rosary. An actual, Hail-Mary-beads, Jesus-on-the-cross rosary. This is more than weird, because Matt loathes religion with an intensity that rivals my hatred for my brother. It's long enough to go over my head, has red beads – a few of which are chipped – and seems rather old. Why Matt owns a rosary is already beyond me; why he wants me to _have _it is just… "What the fuck is this?"

I snatch up the note, hoping it'll provide some clarity. Matt's chicken scratch handwriting is made even more illegible by his rush.

_Mello-_

_Something happened. Can't tell you what but I'm sure you'll find out yourself. I'm leaving so I can't be picked and so…well, let's just see. Give Roger the finger for me when you find out, yeah?_

_By now you've probably destroyed my consoles beyond repair, smashed my laptops, ripped my books and basically turned my side of the room into a hellish mess. You can't ever control your temper when things don't go your way. But that's okay. I took the essentials with me. Just don't slash the bean bag, I'd like to have something to come back to._

_Sorry I left without a proper goodbye. I can't say for myself why I did. Spend the next weeks kicking Near's butt for me, kay? Without me around you'll be first in ammo class, should be good for something. Try not to cause too much damage before you get out yourself. Keep the rosary; when the time comes, you'll know how to find me._

_See you when I do, Mihael._

_-Matt_

I might as well have read his trigonometry notes; this note offers just as much an explanation. The fuck does he mean, _something happened? _Why couldn't he have told me outright? Or, fuck if I know, left me cryptic clues in his goodbye note? Spelled it out with the first letter of every sentence or misspelled things on purpose or _anything. _And _leaving so I can't be picked _– picked for what? He's L's second successor; with me and Near around, he won't ever be picked. Unless – unless that's what L told him that day he left? That Matt was first – Matt was his choice? _I'm leaving so I can't be picked… _Fuck – does that mean L's… L's…

No. We'd know, they'd tell us, Roger would announce it, Watari would come here. There is no bloody fucking way in the depths of hell that Matt would be the only one to know.

_Try not to cause too much damage before you get out yourself. See you when I do. _He makes it sound like he knows I'm going to follow him out there. And that it's going to be soon. But I don't have any damn reason to leave. How the bleeding fuck am I going to be L if I'm not in Whammy's?

_Keep the rosary. You'll know how to find me. _He left me a rosary. A goddamn – hehe – _rosary. _How is this silly religious item supposed to help me find him in the future? Is it going to magically light up like that ring in that weird movie they played once in the common room, the one about the walking castle? Is it going to emit beeps that get faster the closer I get to Matt? Does it unlock something?

I get more and more incensed the more ridiculous my thoughts get. "Well fuck you, Matt." I chuck the rosary toward my desk where it disappears into my books and papers. Just like Matt disappeared into the night.

The room is an absolute mess around me but I don't give a shit. I don't even care about the big test tomorrow or the fact that for the first time in years, Matt was going to miss my birthday. I just want to out this…this…_anger _somehow. It's too late to enter the PhysEd department, even if I _could _pick locks, and the room will just remind me of Matt. God, _everything _would remind me of Matt. Matt.

For the first time since our year-long fight, there is no Matt.

I feel like a porcelain doll haphazardly glued together whose adhesive is finally cracking and drying out and I don't even goddamn fucking shit know why.

In the end I just curl up on his Pokeball beanbag and drift into a half-sleep, clutching his note in my fist, surrounded by the mess I made and no Matt.

It doesn't occur to me until the morning after that Matt knew my real name. _See you when I do, Mihael._

**xxxxxxxxxx**

_**A/N **Yes, I'm just going to leave it there. This chapter's already pretty long, anyway (haha). I hope you guys like where I took the story! Sorry I didn't dwell on the Kira case so much. The way I figure it, the part where the Whammy kids get involved is much more important to the Matt/Mello story then when the Kira case was just getting rolling. Though man, I loved that part in the series, the whole Light vs. L thing. Light's potato chip moment? Priceless._

_Again, R&R, please and thank you!_


	12. Out in the World

_**A/N **Xinde, sometimes, you're much too intuitive, though I don't know if you realize it. I love your speculations; they feed the plot bunnies really well. And thank you for the reviews, CatatonicVanity!_

_Edit: thanks for the correction, CatatonicVanity! I had a feeling I was getting something wrong...  
><em>

**xxxxxxxxxx**

What's a fourteen-year-old Whammy's House kid to do when he's out in the world on his own with naught but a backpack of clothes and games, and a letter from his caretaker clutched in his fist? When I left the House I sort of just ran in some arbitrary direction, thinking only of putting as much distance between me and Whammy's as I could. Getting as far away from that – that _room _as possible.

I meander through a dark street and try not to cry.

I don't know if I should have found out. I'd only been taking care of an assignment Watari had left me, a little hacking to do with the Kira case. I know it was late; I was supposed to have done it a week ago but I'd forgotten since I'd finally gotten my hands on Persona4 and I'd been wrapped up in hacking my PS3 so it could play pirated games. Watari had given me a week to finish it, and it was a relatively simple job, so I'd been cramming it tonight. It was a hurried job, a little messy, but that wasn't too bad, right? I was just transferring it to Watari's system over in Japan, just like he asked, when – when –

The stench of city and my shock and tonight in general catch up to me and I retch in a nearby bush.

_Screens whiting out, program errors appearing, coding and data corrupting and erasing, the beeping of the CPUs like a flatlining heart-_

I run down dark streets, darting around the circles of lights of the streetlamps, not seeing anything except white screens and scattering numbers and those words, those three words…

"_No, no, goddamn it, Watari, NO!" This couldn't be happening – **this could not be happening. **I don't care what L told me that day, the day he left, the reason behind this complete deletion. No, no, goddamnit. This isn't happening. I try everything, anything I'd ever learned. Nothing. Irretrievable, corrupted, gone. Goddamnit, no._

I had been instructed. I _have _instructions, what to do, what it means. I know that there is only one situation in the entire world that would instigate a complete erasure of Watari's system.

Complete erasure.

Everything, everything Watari had built up over the years, case files and information and reports. A techie's worst nightmare.

_All Data Deleted._

I am _not _crying, goddamnit, it's just the non-existent rain.

I'd been clutching at the mouse, the keyboard, in utter desperation. Just like how I clutch at my letter now. My letter from Watari, with the three credit cards and five false IDs and not enough information to get me by. I knew what to do; how could I forget? My high IQ and eidetic memory, remember, Watari? But you forgot, you forgot I'm only fourteen. I'm a genius and I know what to do but goddamnit _I'm not ready._

_Matt._

I trip, fail to catch myself, crash into a brick wall. Pain explodes in my left shoulder and it's good, because it helps me not think about what just happened. Or so I think. It takes the edge off the shock and the feeling of abandonment but it doesn't let me forget.

_If you are reading this now, then you must know what has happened. There is only one reason for you to open this envelope._

All Data Deleted. All Data Deleted.

_You have the backups of the Kira Case. You have this letter. Now follow my instructions carefully. You were L's first choice, Matt, and even if you weren't you are mine, and now is the time for you to live up to that. You have been unmotivated thus far; you have even expressed your refusal to rise to this position. You have no desire to be first. But this is not about being first anymore; this is about a world that can be changed by your actions. You would have been first for a reason. I hope you understand that._

I – would have been first? L's first choice? I don't – Watari, damnit, I _don't_ understand! I'm just a kid!

_You know how L's death will affect Whammy's House. You will know, from the system, who L has chosen – if he has chosen, because as of the time I am writing this, he has still not decided. You are smart, though you do not wish to be; you will be able to predict what Near will do, and what Mello will do. And from there you must decide._

L's death. L's, and Watari's, because that day in the office, Watari told me – if anything, anything at all happened to him, L had instructed him to get rid of everything. I would have what backups I chose to have in my laptop but everything else would go. And it's happened, it just happened, and all I could do was watch the screens in the computer room white out, one after the other.

All Data Deleted. All Data Deleted. All Data Deleted.

I slump against the wall and sob.

_Enclosed are credit cards and false identities. There is enough money in there to last you until you know what you must do. There will be an apartment in London waiting for you should you choose to take it. I am very sorry to be leaving you with only this, but there is not much else I can do. I cannot make the decisions for you, Matt. I cannot give you the facts. I can only give what I can, and hope it will be enough for a young boy with nowhere else to go._

Damn right, Watari. I'm stuck in some godforsaken part of England, lost and alone, with only some shirts and pants and portable gaming systems and a laptop and your letter. You didn't prepare me for this. You told me to hack, told me to program, but you never told me how to make it on my own, and nothing in the house could have braced me for it.

_This is plenty to place upon such a young boy's shoulders, I realize. You will think that it is not fair, and you will be right. But you are a Whammy's House genius, Matt, and even there you are an exception. I trust you will make the right choices, for yourself, and for Near and Mello._

Mello. Oh god, Mello. I left him there, right outside the door, threatening me. I knew his bravado was only masking his hurt at not knowing, maybe even his worry. But I couldn't tell him, and even if I could I wouldn't want to and how could I? How could I open the door and tell him the man he was striving to be, the man he was pushing himself to the limit for, was – was dead? How could I take an ocean of pain and dump it all over the boy on fire?

The tears are pooling in my goggles. I left him. I left.

_Best of luck, Matt. I do not regret giving you what I have; I only wish I could have taught you more. Take care, Mail Jeevas._

Mail. Mail Jeevas. That's who I am right now. Not Matt, not the third boy at Whammy's, L's first successor. I'm Mail Jeevas, lost in an early winter snow, a lost little boy with orange goggles that should make the world look safe but don't. I ran away again, ran outside, left the people most important to me in a burning building. Whammy's is going to be set alight soon with the fire of L's death, the spark that will set the tension of the orphanage blazing. I'm lost and alone and cold. This doesn't feel like the right choice.

_All Data Deleted_.

The laptop weighs heavy in my bag, reminding me of tasks yet to be done. I need to get to the apartment Watari left me. I need to pick apart the Whammy system that thankfully didn't get deleted along with the rest of Watari's stuff. I need to get a footing in the right places. Most of all, I need to prepare.

Because L is dead and without me in the house, there is no successor. He never picked between Near and Mello. I saw that much from my files. He wanted it to be me but I couldn't. He wanted me and that's why I'm here right now. _I'm leaving so I can't be picked _– that's what I told Mello. I'm leaving so it won't be me proclaimed the new L.

That leaves Near and Mello. Roger will definitely ask them to work together; Mello will refuse. He won't work with the person he's been trying to beat all these years. No, Mello will leave to make his own way and leave the title of L to Near, because L left him without a proper goodbye. Another ultimate abandonment by a father figure. He will hate his hero but he will want to avenge him. Mello will find his own way to bring down Kira. So before he does, I need to be out here, making the right moves so when the time comes, Mello will win.

Because that was the choice Watari was telling me to make. _You will be able to predict what Near will do, and what Mello will do. And from there you must decide. _I know what they'll do, and I had to make a choice. Mello or Near.

Judging by the money, the IDs, the apartment left for me, Watari knew who I'd pick.

**xxxxxxxxxx  
>xxxxxxxxxx<strong>

The testing day after Matt leaves, I take first. I don't do anything except study and eat and take naps. I threw a tantrum when Roger suggested moving Matt's belongings, so his side of the room is still the way he left it, though I made an effort to pile stuff onto his bed so the floor wouldn't be such a mess. The only possession of his that I touch is the beanbag I nap on. I don't understand why Matt so willingly slept on it all those nights I'd take his bed; this thing sucks.

_Spend the next weeks kicking Near's butt, kay?_

No, wait, I do understand. It's the same reason I'm sleeping on it now. But I don't think about it, don't think about slotting a game into the cartridge of his PS2 – the only remaining functional console – if only to hear the background music one more time. I don't think about the contagious laugh of a goggle-wearing boy or the snuffles he makes in his sleep. I study, study, study, the red beads of a rosary rough on my neck.

Somehow they remind me of his calloused fingers, the few times he'd touched me. Calloused fingers leading to solid arms and a warm grip.

The Monday the rankings are posted, a hush falls over Whammy's House. Everyone looks at me, all those eyes in the crowded corridor, as I take in my name at the very top of the list, Near's name right below it. Linda's in third place now. My lips tighten at the sight. This is it, this is what I've been working for. Why doesn't it feel as good?

The ground beneath my feet always feels so precarious now, without something propping me up.

For the next three weeks I hold my position in first. I stop talking to people, drop what friends I've managed to make. I go to class then hole up in the room to study. It's all I can do, all I know how to do.

Some nights I can't concentrate, can't get the words to go together right, and on those nights I always end up taking a walk that leads me to that door again. The door where I last saw Matt. Shaken, frightened Matt.

My fingers threaten to snap the rosary around my neck as they curl around it in anger and hurt.

_Fuck you, Matt. _Fuck you for leaving me without telling me why. Fuck you for being able to read me so easily. Fuck you and your secrets and your stupid mind. Fuck you for making me care.

Fuck.

There's a knock on the door, the first time anyone's ever bothered me ever since Matt left. At first I don't want to answer it. The knocking grows more impatient. I don't look up from my book. The knob rattles. I read. Suddenly there's a slight _crunch _and a _click, _and the door swings open.

It's Roger.

"Mello."

I don't look up again, choosing to keep reading. He's probably just going to tell me to see the therapist again, work out what I'm feeling. Or convince me to let some of Matt's stuff go, even just the broken ones. He can go and shove his expectations up his ass, nothing's going anywhere.

"Mello, come with me."

I keep reading.

"Mihael Keehl." _That _makes my head snap up. The Whammy's House instructions are clear: past identities no longer exist. The name you have now is the name you will keep until you die. I didn't even know Roger knew my real name.

"What."

"Come with me." Now that he has my attention, I notice something's wrong. His hands are trembling slightly, there's a quiver to his voice, and – are his eyes red? My hands drop the book to my lap in shock. Roger – Roger's been _crying?_

He gestures for me to go, and this time I obey wordlessly. Roger's not supposed to cry. He's supposed to be angry but secretly amused, sitting in his office, running this orphanage. This isn't the way he's supposed to be. This…

This reminds me of Matt.

When we get to his office, I find Near's inside, playing a white puzzle on the floor. At first I think L's designating new successors since Matt left but then no one else is in the room. Does this mean – L finally picked? Are we going to find out who's first? My eyes go from Roger, who's at his desk, to Near on the floor, to Roger to Near and I'm confused.

_I'm leaving so I can't be picked. _Chicken scratch handwriting on a scrap of paper.

"Mello." There's an immense sadness in Roger's voice and for the first time, I find I sympathize with the old man, even just a little. I haven't spoken since Matt left but I think if I did, I would sound like that.

"L is dead."

**xxxxxxxxxx**

It's the night Matt left all over again, but this time it's me who's locked the door. It's me who's stomping around the room, shoving things randomly into a backpack. Pants, boxers, shirts; a jacket; my worn copy of _The Sun Also Rises, _where the wrapper of the chocolate bar Nurse Beatrix gave me is pinned between pages 33 and 34_. _Matt's Red/Green Pokemon cartridges, which he must have missed in his hurry – he loves this game. Socks. A laptop. Finally, I reach behind my books and pull out the one thing I've been trying my hardest not to look at or think about these past four weeks: the only photograph I have of me and Matt. Carmeline took it with the camera she got from L, back when she was a successor. I slip it in with the chocolate wrapper, trying not to see Matt's laughing face.

_Roger. Save your breath, I'm almost fifteen. It's time I start living my own life.  
><em>

I consider going the same way as Matt – out the window, down the tree – but think better of it. I _want _Whammy's to see me leaving, striding out of the house, head held high. Mello, bright and blazing, L's successor, first place. First. I'd just gotten it, and now it didn't mean anything. There was no one to be first for, and I didn't want to share.

I'm not ready to be L, even just half of it.

I fling the door open, chin up, bag over one shoulder. The kids in the corridors, who don't know about L yet, all stop and stare. I don't look at any of them as I make my way down the hall. It's so quiet, my footsteps in my boots echo over and over. This is the exit Matt refused, preferring to disappear in the middle of the night. This is the exit I want people to remember, want people to talk about years after I'm gone.

This is why Matt left.

He knew. Now that I've heard it, I know he knew. _Something's happened. Give Roger the finger for me when you find out. _

And he knew I'd leave.

_Try not to cause too much damage before you get out yourself. See you when I do, Mihael._

I wonder how he knew my real name. I wonder how he knew that L was dead. I wonder where he is. I wonder how he knew I'd follow.

The gates of Whammy's are before me, high and intimidating. I know the minute I cross them, that's it. I won't ever be coming back.

_See you when I do, Mihael._

The rosary is rough around my neck.

"See you when I do, Matty," I murmur, and stride out the gates into the cold December evening.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

What's a fourteen-year-old kid from Whammy's House to do when he's out on his own in the world with naught but a backpack full of clothes and books, and a letter from his hero clutched in his fist? When I left the house I made for the nearest town, thinking to start from there. Matt's been gone a month but there's not much else I can do. _When the time comes, you'll know how to find me, _he'd said.

Well I'm out here now, Matt. How do I find you?

**xxxxxxxxxx**

_**A/N **A bit shorter than the previous chapters, but it was so loaded so I didn't want to add much more. Ding, ding, ding, Mello's left Whammy's House! Where will he go? How will he make it? And how will he and Matt find each other again?_

_Italics in Matt's POV indicate memories, and Watari's letter. Italics in Mello's POV indicate thoughts and excerpts from Matt's letter. Wondering what L told Mello in his note? You'll find out later in the story. *grin*_

_Thank you again to the reviews; I honestly didn't expect this story to get much attention since the MM DN fanfic page isn't too active anymore. But I'm glad you guys are around. I hope I never disappoint!_


	13. Matt: II

_**A/N **Again with the quick updates! The plot bunnies (why I decided to adopt this expression, I don't know) are getting really rabid. And you guys have been motivating me a lot lately. And my architectural projects are over and done with so I suddenly have a lot of free time on my hands._

_Thanks again for the reviews; I'm glad this story is getting attention, and I'm very glad you guys are liking where I'm taking this story. This chapter will again be purely Matt, but this time it keeps the first person/present POV. The next chapter will be Mello. Gotta give the two time apart, right?_

_Enjoy!_

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Three weeks. That's how long it takes me to find the apartment Watari left me (because first I had to sift through what I had of his files in order to find the goddamn address, and then I had to hunt down the stupid key – what is this, scavenger hunt?) and get settled. It's a simple setup, nothing fancy – studio apartment, sparsely furnished. One bed, one bath, small kitchen with a fridge and a microwave. A TV in front of the bed. What sets this apart from the typical apartment is the sheer number of sockets along the wall, for plugs and other cables, and the direct connect internet line. I tried it out last night and hit download speeds of insane proportions. My WoW delay was practically zero.

Wherever you are old man, just know I like you a lot more than I usually like human beings. And maybe even some games, too.

I've gotten a good night's sleep and eaten a somewhat decent breakfast (living in Whammy's House, we never knew what fast food tasted like, so the first McNugget that went into my mouth was like cardboard), and now I'm sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed, getting ready to get working. I've actually been here a week, but I've been putting off doing this because despite what people think, I get scared and hurt and lost just like everyone else. I may look perpetually bored but I'm not emotionless. And what I have to do definitely scares and hurts me.

It's with shaking fingers that I open my laptop – the laptop Watari had me make, the only one I could stand to bring with me – and tap into the Whammy files. It gets easier and easier each time, but it also gets more and more painful. I crash through the firewalls at breakneck speed, desperate to get this over and done with. Like that thing they say about Band-Aids, what was it…something about ripping and pain? Despite the fact that it takes only a few minutes, though, it's like someone's slashed open my chest with a blunt weapon. All this work, all the things done by Watari…

I wonder why this is all affecting me so much. I never cared for L; I never cared for Watari much, either, until he took me under his wing or whatever, but even then it wasn't like I interacted with the guy much.

Before I can follow that line of thought down I get into the orphan files.

These are the only existing copies, and they are the heart of the Whammy system – and the most heavily guarded. But since I was the one who updated the protection (with Watari's help, of course), I let myself in easy-peasy. I skip over all the files until I get to the Ms, and there I am.

Matt.

One folder amidst some couple hundreds.

Without even hesitating, I delete it. Then I run two programs over the deletion to make sure it's complete. And that's it. I've cleaned the system of every trace of me. The surveillance of my room has long been erased, the work of my time in that small room back at Whammy's. Now I get rid of my scores, my papers, my files. Mail Jeevas now only exists in my memory.

_I _only exist in memories, and only because those are things even the most skilled of hackers can't erase.

I move three files over from where I used to be and select the next folder. Mello.

Two clicks and he's gone too. I don't even open the folder; I don't want to see how he'd been since I'd left. I run the programs again, do it once more for closure. And just like that, Mello's gone from the Whammy system. The only ones who will ever know Mihael Keehl are me, and Mihael himself.

_Mihael Keehl, age nine. Father dead in a shootout._

His file, the one sent over from his previous school, was in that folder. That's what Watari asked me to check.

No wonder he freaked that first time we played paintball.

Mihael Keehl. Mello.

Now that he's out of the system, I need to get him out of Whammy's too. I leave Near's folder; I know he'll take care of it himself.

_Matt, I know you are aware of how dangerous this case is. In the event that either Watari or I die, or if the both of us do, there are things you must do._

I remember, L. I remember what Watari told me. High IQ and eidetic memory.

I hack my way into L's laptop, the one I know is sitting in the secret room up in the attic of Whammy's. The data will have been deleted but the laptop will still be fully functional. He'd work from there, sometimes, though no one else aside from Watari and I knew it. It hits me again – just as hard as it did all those times before – how much L actually trusted me. Me, his first choice, or would have been if I'd let him pick me.

It's harder than I expect, typing down a message to Roger. It takes me twelve tries before I just send one that's direct to the point. It's been a month since L's death, too long for them not to know, and that's my fault, but what else could I have done? I'm fourteen; I'm just a kid. I shouldn't have to be dealing with this.

The transmission gets through. I know that any minute now, Roger will be getting the message he's been dreading all these long years.

I wonder how he'll break the news.

I move on before I can think of Mello's reaction.

Watari trained me to be a hacker and programmer, so I'm fairly good, but I need to get better. And the only way to get better is to get practice. I could just hack whatever caught my fancy (I'm thinking I'll try Capcom or Atlus sometime soon, so I can download and hack their games to play on my future consoles before they're even on the market – after I debug them, of course, because first versions are always the shittiest – getting derailed here) but I know that won't be enough. Mello's going to leave Whammy's and he's definitely going to do something dangerous when he gets his shit together. And I need to be around for when that happens.

I will need a reputation. And to get a reputation, I need to get attention. I need to hack something very big, very important, and very dangerous.

I think I'll start with the Mafia.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Twelve hours later and I've got a couple hundred grand in green spread over the accounts Watari left me (untraceable, of course), information on three of the top Mafias in the United States, and six plane tickets to four different continents. The others are decoys, obviously; the only one I'm taking is the one to Los Angeles. It's full of illegal activity, it's on the coast nearest Japan – where Kira is – and it seems like a good place for a budding hacker to start. The idiot guarding the first Mafia's files wasn't anything on me, and I'm just a teenager. If there are organized crime syndicates out there who're this careless, then maybe building a rep won't be so hard after all.

I just need to keep moving a lot.

Ugh, I _hate _the thought of moving around. It means it's just that much more of a hassle to own plug-in consoles, which is a bitch since there's a new Halo coming out and I think a Resident Evil or something of the sort and I was _really _looking forward to playing them. Not to mention I kinda miss playing Pacman on my PS1, no matter how childish that really seems.

Ah fuck my plane's leaving in an hour.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Los Angeles is hot. Now that I'm here, I think it's the worst place I could be in. I could have picked on the Russian Mafias instead, at least it's cold up in Russia. Some more extreme version of English weather. I don't even know if the sidewalks of California know what rain _is, _let alone actually experience it. I've only been here for a week and already I want to go back home.

It would be pretty shitty and hilarious to think that after running away from an orphanage for geniuses at my now-dead caretaker's orders, hacking into three different Mafias, siphoning their drug profits into my own accounts, and hopping a flight to the next continent, I would die of a heat stroke because I wasn't used to sunny weather.

I've been living in a hotel since I got here, but I think sometime soon I will hunt down a fully airconditioned apartment and then never leave it. Ever.

My goggles make LA look more orange and sunny that it already does. Everything's so bright it hurts.

"You okay, kid?"

And now there's this weird guy talking to me, whoopee.

"Fine," I brush him off. He looks to be maybe early twenties, dressed like a rock star, shiny leather and killer tan. A cigarette dangles from his lips and safety pins are stuck into his ear. I probably look like a complete dweeb next to him, with my striped shirt and goggles. Not that I really care.

"New to LA? You got a funny accent."

"Mm." Some genius kid I am. _I'm in a foreign country with barely anything to get me by and I'm talking to some strange guy I encounter while loitering on a corner five blocks from my hotel. But what do I have to lose, right?_

"Want a fag? Look like you could use something." A fag? Oh – he means a cigarette. That's something I've never considered before, holding fire at the end of a tobacco stick. Inhaling smoke on purpose. I still can't quite bring myself to be around flames – I avoided the Whammy's common room like it was the plague when Roger would light the fireplace during Christmas – but the way the end of his cigarette burns, flaring up and dying down, and the way the smoke flows from his lips, intrigues me.

"Put 'er there," I say on a whim and a joke, holding out a hand for one of his pretty white sticks. Marlboro Menthol Lights, I note, as he takes out a pack. He slides one out, ignores my hand, and sticks it between my lips.

"Breathe in," he commands me, and just as I inhale through my mouth he leans forward and touches my "fag" with his (oh god, oh god, that sounds so gross, dear mother of Zelda, bleach the thought from my mind). Smoke floods my mouth and nope, there's no natural instinct to absorb it or whatever. I am apparently not born to smoke, because I break into a coughing fit that will probably tear my lungs.

"Easy, kiddo," the guy laughs, thumping me on the back good-naturedly. When I finish sandpapering my throat, he hands over another stick and cocks an eyebrow. "The name's Connor. Need a place to stay?"

**xxxxxxxxxx**

It turns out talking to Connor wasn't that bad of an idea.

I've been in LA nine months, sleeping on his couch on and off, and boy has life been good. His shitty apartment at least has airconditioning, food, and a running shower. I pay minimal rent and clean up a bit when I'm around and he supplies me with smokes (among other things) and a roof over my head when I need it. He also gets me a foothold in the Los Angeles criminal underworld.

"_You need a job, kid. Can't make it in LA as a bum. What're ya good at?"_

"_Er. Computers?"_

"_The legal kind or no?"_

"_Both."_

"_Heh." He plucks my cigarette from between my lips. "I think I may have something for you to do."_

Connor doesn't hire me outright. He gives me a simple hacking job, tells me I have six hours to complete it, and leaves to get himself another six or seven packs of Marlboros. I finish it by the time he gets back from the corner store. It's my first taste of an actual information theft job, and has been my living ever since.

"_Ever think of being a hacker for hire? The family could use someone of your caliber."_

"_I prefer freelance. Don't want to be anyone's bitch."_

_He tosses me another pack of cigarettes and a small Ziploc half-filled with fine white powder. "Suit yourself." He cuts another notch into the table, pours out his own smack. Inhales it, throwing his head back right after. "Who's the next target?"_

_My laptop's open in front of me, ready to get running. Ready to make me infamous. "Some Russian big-shot just stored himself some fancy painting in a BA in Sweden." Nine months in LA has me talking like an American; I don't sound like the genius I am and I like it. "I think I'll help myself."_

"_A painting?"_

"_Can't a hacker appreciate a little art?"_

And it's a bit of a trip, knowing the technological world is quivering in fear of me. Or of my alias, but same difference. That's kind of funny to think about – an alias for my alias. But having just "Matt" as a hacker name is really fucking boring. Who'd be scared of _Matt_? But really, it's pretty trippy. I can make the most badass Mafia bosses pee in their pants just by putting my name on their screens, all in nine months.

_Why the fuck didn't I start doing this ages ago?_

Watari was right. I'm a goddamn genius.

"Back so soon, M?" Connor comes out of his bedroom half-dressed, the hickey from his latest conquest still visible on his neck. He runs a hand through his hair and ambles to his fridge, presumably for a – yep, a beer.

I've wondered vaguely if he doesn't find it strange to be housing a teenage runaway-come-hacker every so often, but then again, he's 24 and a Mafia Capo. He's even got me to loosen up a bit. I actually talk now, even if it's just to him. I may feel the need to converse more but that doesn't mean I'm well on the way to regular human interaction.

"Just for an afternoon. I'm between apartments." This is a bit of a joke for us now, because I'm _always _between apartments. I may cover my tracks well but I won't risk having some two-bit hacker jumping my trail while my back's turned and bringing an entire mob down on whatever entrance I happen to have. Whenever I go back to Connor's I make sure I don't do Mafia work. I owe the guy enough without having him jumped, too.

"Couch is free," he says, his standard reply. He shrugs on a shirt, then his leather jacket, then stuffs a gun down his boot. "Ciao."

"Have fun," I call vaguely, as I make myself as comfortable as I can on the squeaky polyblend. I watch his blonde hair whip out the door and feel, not for the first time, a pang of – something. It's almost been a year and I've seen or heard nothing of Mello. I know he managed to trace me to central London – I hadn't been as careful about my tracks then – but he dropped off my radar after that.

_"What's this Mello like, anyway?"_

_"Blonde. Skinny. Explosive personality." I survey the white wall, tinted yellow by my goggles. "A boy on fire."_

_"Fire, huh?" Connor leans over me, stubs out his cigarette in my ashtray. His blond hair catches the dying light and I'm reminded of the first time I met Mello, standing in my doorway, with a halo of noontime sun._

I check the news, the underworld stats, all looking for a trace of the fiery blonde. I check the Kira death listings, my heart beating a little faster every time. I stretch my roots in the criminal world as far as they can go, hoping for anything. Waiting.

He was my choice, after all.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

As the Capo of a Mafia Connor meets with a lot of flak but gets a lot of protection. Apparently this doesn't extend to the _inside _of his family, since he gets shot in the head. For being gay. I find out because the underboss himself shows up at the apartment to check what Connor's been hiding (about 4 kilograms of glass-cut coke, six bags of Peruvian weed, a shipment's worth of Mexican tequila, twenty guns, and me, not that I'm counting) with I don't know, half the Mafia soldiers. Luckily they came through the fire escape (idiots) so I hotfooted it out the front door with my bag, five guns, and half the smack. The Beretta's heavy in my palm as I take the back streets, running arbitrarily, dodging street lamps. It's eerily reminiscent of the night I left Whammy's and for the first time since I came to LA, I think I might cry.

I tried not to let myself get too attached to the guy since the last time I let myself look up to someone they died, but it's hard not to appreciate a guy who gives so much to a kid he just plucked off the street because he liked his goggles.

"_Why do you keep me around, C?" It's dark in LA at night, just like everywhere, but it's never quiet. The hum of traffic, the beats of the night life, it's all there. Never any peace. It's so different from dreary England and I love it._

"_Who else would erase any trace of me from Google when I asked? Who would plant a virus in my computer when he tried to download P3P for his PSP and forgot to run the clean check programs? Who would shut the city's electricity down on a whim, right when I'm taking a shower?"_

"_Fuck you." The twin screens of my DS illuminate the grin on my face._

"_If you'd allow it." Silence for a while. "Find your guy yet?"_

"_Still looking."_

"_He worth it?" Is he? Is the boy on fire worth my wait?_

"_He better be."_

I think I'll move to the next state, just to be safe. And far away. Very far away.

This is why I really _hate _talking to people.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

When I get to Atlanta I don't get close to anyone. I work on my own, moving from apartment to apartment after every job. I try to steer clear of Mafias for the meantime. I force myself to forget LA and the man I met there, focusing instead on putting out as many feelers as I can. Watching, waiting.

I could have brought him along. Could have gotten us somewhere, a head start. But just as Watari couldn't make my decisions for me, I couldn't do that to Mello. I can only give him what I can and hope it's enough.

Mello, where are you?

**xxxxxxxxxx**

My reputation builds along with my anxiety and my substance (ab)use. I take on jobs to actually _earn _some of my cash instead of just stealing it. Mostly illegal; a takedown here, a hack job there. Sometimes espionage. Assassination.

_"No - no please don't kill me! Please! I have - I have money, I'll give you anything!"_

_The Beretta weighs heavy in my palm, feeling nothing like my custom guns back at Whammy's. Come on, self. Pull the trigger. Either he dies or you do. That's the only choice.  
><em>

_"Please, I'm begging you - don't - don't kill me, PLEASE!"_

_Pull the trigger, Matt._

_Just one shot. Just like shooting one of the training dummies.  
><em>

_"PLEASE!"_

_Pull the trigger._

_"Please, no!"_

_Just one shot._

_"No!"_

_The first shot oddly reminds me of my last paintball game with Mello. His pellets had been red._

_When I get home I get myself on a steady, twelve-hour high and try to forget that the guy had been blonde._

I've lost all sense of morality a long time ago. I lost the genius kid at Whammy's, third place, slacker extraordinaire, Mello's roommate and friend. I left a little behind every time I move cities and states, took bits and pieces away every time I pulled an injection from my skin, until it's completely gone.

I wonder what Watari would think of me, now.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Kira must be pretty pissed off that he can't kill me, but I've covered my tracks too wisely and well. It's the advantage of being a hacker; you never leave more than an alias. No face, no photos – hell, I'm nowhere in the system because I'm a Whammy kid. I stopped existing – legally, at any rate – when I was eight.

Come to think of it, since I sweep up after myself so much, I wonder if Kira even knows I exist at all.

In a perverse way I find I remind myself of L. Taking jobs at my leisure, hacking and killing – yes, I kill now; my hands are no longer clean – only what and who I want. Holding the criminal underworld in the palm of my hand because I can do things they can't, because I can beat them. Dangling my anonymity before them, rubbing it in their faces. L was anonymous, arrogant justice; I am anonymous, arrogant illegality.

The night I realized this – while I was infiltrating a Mafia to scare the shit out of them because their hacker was pissing me off – I laughed my head off and then proceeded to get so high, I was probably only a few milligrams away from an overdose. I ran away so I _wouldn't _be L and now here I am, acting like him like some strange mirror image, or photo negative.

God, that's fucked.

I've also been on the lookout for Near and Mello. I actually _meet _Near once, in New York, while I'm there on a job. I'd kept tabs on him; he was working for the federal government. FBI, I think. Building a reputation of his own so he could get support from the US president.

"_Matt."_

He was in the building I was infiltrating. I hadn't even recognized him. Don't know how he knew I was there, how he even knew it was me. Probably the goggles; who else in the world likes wearing orange swim goggles almost 24/7?

Coffee with Near is a very weird thing. For one, it's _Near. _Back at Whammy's I barely said two words to the guy, mostly because he – just like me – kept to himself. Also because if I got within ten feet of the kid, Mello would skin me alive. Seeing him sit across me in a café makes me wonder what I would have been like – what things would have been like – if I had gone with him instead. If I had stayed.

It's also weird because, I mean, come on. Near in a coffee shop? That fluffy sheepy thing? I didn't even know he stepped out into the sun at all.

Near didn't exist in the system either.

"Is Mello not with you?"

I haven't been in contact with anyone at Whammy's for a year and the first thing the sheep boy asks me is if Mello's here? I'm fine, Near, getting along just peachy, thanks for asking.

"I've been isolated from previous acquaintances for the past year."

"You left because of L as well, did you not?" Well if he isn't the little genius albino.

"What makes you think that?"

In response, Near pulls out an envelope from his pocket. It's the one from Roger's office, way back from the day L left. The edges are worn and the N is a little faded. "I opened this soon after I was informed of L's death." He flips it over, flips it open, and the contents spill out onto the table. A letter, a flash drive and – and – is that – "L seemed to think I would need it," Near comments quietly, noticing where I was looking.

Ten-year-old Mello smiles up at me, from a photograph I know Carmeline took. I wonder how L managed to get a copy.

Near is both asking and answering a completely different question now, but oddly it gives me closure.

"I did not hate him, Matt." I look up, looking at a yellow-tinted Near through the safety of my goggles – Near, quiet Nate River, whom I've never known what to make of, with his white, calculating logic and a more tragic past than mine or Mello's. "I resented his attitude toward me but I did not hate him. Nor you."

His voice is quiet. He shifts so that his feet dangle from the high chair, swinging a little, and it's here I realize I'm just looking at another kid whom Whammy's made grow up too fast, too soon. He has a robot with him, a miniature moving Optimus Prime. I think back to when I first saw him, an analytical little sheep standing beside Roger in the classroom door, toy in hand. He had seemed scared then, not distant. It kind of makes me sad. "I didn't hate you, either." _I hated L._

"Do you regret the choice you made?"

Near fixes me with a gaze that reminds me very strongly of L. They have the same eyes, the same analytic look. Without more than a handful of words, Near tells me he knows exactly why I left Whammy's, and why I'm doing what I am now. He's telling me exactly what he meant by his earlier question. What he meant by leaving because of L.

I wonder why Watari and L thought I was better than him. I wonder what his letter says. I think things would have been very different indeed if I had picked Near instead.

I wonder if he wishes I did pick him.

"No," and for the first time in a while I genuinely smile. We've both changed so much.

Near gets up, dusts down his white button-down. His expression is as blank as always. "I shall take my leave of you now. I would offer my number in case you ever need to contact me, but I do not think it will be necessary. Why bother giving such information to the world's most wanted hacker?"

It's not until the chime of the coffee shop door stops tinkling that I realize Near actually made an honest-to-goodness _joke _– well, a crack at humor – and when it hits me, I find it's hard to stop laughing.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

The first I see of Mello is his name – the fuck didn't he use another alias? – in the roster of one of the Mafias I'm tracking. I haven't checked up on this group in a while, mostly because I'm now in Chicago. At first I think it's just something from my drug-induced haze, but when I wake up the next morning sober, he's still there.

Mello, Mafia Capo.

All this time I've been waiting for him to find me and still I spot him first.

It's been almost two years since I left him alone at Whammy's, on the other side of that door.

Now there are a handful of states between us.

I look at my laptop screen and chuckle. Figures we'd start in the same place. The Mafia and Los Angeles.

Connor's Mafia in Los Angeles.

I know the hacker of his Mafia. He's good, got a nice reputation in tech circles. A bit of a skiver (as if I'm not), easily bought over, but if you have the money he has the talent. I've worked against him once already; I'll override him easily now.

Near's approached me for help a few times. Time Mello gets a leg up from me, too.

My eyes linger on his name. No photograph, never a photograph in the age of Kira, so I don't know what he looks like – if he's changed at all. Still, it's reassuring to know he's alive, to know I haven't been waiting and working in vain.

I hope he kept the rosary like I asked.

"See you when I do, Mihael," I mutter, smiling to myself as I begin my hunt for my suitcase. I was getting tired of Chicago, anyway.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

_**A/N **Edit: I added some parts to this chapter (thanks for your review, xinde - gave me a little inspiration and let me know just what the chapter was lacking; I knew there was something I wasn't thinking of). Hope they're okay!  
><em>

_I'm not particularly satisfied with this chapter, but I don't quite know how to improve it either. It's just a brief glimpse of what Matt was up to while he was waiting for Mello to find him – which is basically just Matt building up a rep as a hacker. It feels a bit lacking but I didn't want to go into too much detail, since I want Matt to have a little mystery around him. I want Matt to be the one with the secrets. I mention the odd jobs he takes – hacking, espionage, assassination and whatever else – but don't say what goes down. I hope that doesn't make things boring._

_I also included a little Near, because I like the thought of Matt being in contact with both of them._

_I'm not sure where the Connor angle came from. Was it too weird, to introduce a semi-important character without going into much detail over it? It was mostly a way to get Matt into the criminal underworld. And, well… just please note that Connor's gay._

_Constructive criticism will be very welcome!_


	14. Mello: II

_**A/N **Hi guys! Another quickie (update, I mean). Generally I wait for xinde to review so I can see what's good and what's not (feel flattered, feel very, very flattered – haha!) but the chapter was demanding to be written. (Dear lord I sound like… well let's just say I don't normally consider my chapters animate objects.) Besides, I'd already written the end of this chapter, which I'm quite proud of, if I do say so myself!_

_And now, it's Mello's turn! Chapter time._

**xxxxxxxxxx**

There's a rectangular patch on the floorboards that's still warm. It feels like a laptop was on it.

Trust Matt to leave right before I get here. It didn't take me too long to pack and leave Whammy's, and the letter from L had a couple hundred pounds in change so getting to London wasn't that hard. (Fine, I'll admit. I was lost for two hours. Can you blame me? I've never been out of Whammy's since I got there!) I'd read the letter while on the Underground, read it until I'd memorized its contents. Matt's rosary bounced on my chest, jiggled by the movement of the train.

_Mello._

My fingers idly trace the wood, finding the indents and scratches. I can't believe it's taken me so long to notice. Despite all the times I'd clutched at the religious relic, fallen asleep with it cradled in my palms, it was only now that I'd realized the markings on the back weren't just random scratches. They spelled out, in very rough letters, a word.

Jeevas.

I still don't know how this is going to help me find him. It could even be a horrendously misspelled "Jesus" and mean nothing, for all I know. Fuck Matt for being cryptic even up to now.

_If you are reading this, then you must already be aware of what has happened. However impulsive you may be, I know and trust you enough to be sure that you will not read this for any other reason._

I was thankful for the obnoxious music and the loud chatter of the people on the subway. At least then, there had been something to drown out the awful sound of Roger's voice. Now, in the silence of the apartment, Roger's voice is everywhere. It physically hurts to think about what he'd said, what he'd broken to me. To us, because the news had been for Near as well.

Near.

My hands clench around the rosary in anger at the thought.

_You are aware, of course, that both Near and Matt have received their own letters as well. Each contains different instructions. These are yours._

The address in the letter led to an apartment in Central London, under the name of a John Matter. Matter – Matt.

But when I'd gotten here, there was no Matt.

_I am unable to leave you much due to my inability to predict the circumstances under which you will be opening this. There are many plausible scenarios, but which the more likely is, I cannot say. Likely Watari and I have been killed by Kira. You have your research; you may, if you so wish, take up the case._

The circumstances: L and Watari dead, Kira stronger than ever, Matt gone, no successor chosen. After Matt left, Roger nearly shit himself because Matt was supposedly L's preferred choice. He'd sent word of Matt's disappearance and we'd waited and waited, needing the closure.

And then he'd had the _gall _to ask me to work with Near.

_Matt will be gone by now, of that I have no doubt. Despite the lack of apparent closeness he is loyal to you. Find him. However you choose to move on with your life from now, he will be necessary._

_Find him. Find me._ Why does everyone think I'd be spending my time after L's – death – chasing _Matt? _Kira is out there – Kira, who killed L and Watari and crushed my every hope and purpose – and if I'm going to chase anyone, if I'm going to dedicate my life to finding someone, it'll be him. Not Matt.

The fucker was the one who left, anyway.

_Do not forget all I have told you. Do not let yourself be wrapped up in the little things, Mello. Always look at the bigger picture. A little creativity is wise, but always have a reason. Keep your emotions in check._

I chuck my bag at the bed, then kick the bedpost for good measure.

_Best of luck, Mihael._

Even in his letter, L never said who he'd picked.

Did he really want Matt that much? Couldn't have, if he'd know Matt would leave.

"_Gottverdammt, scheisskopf__._" I kick my bag off my bed, forgetting for the moment that it has a laptop inside. What's so great about that _arschloch _anyway? The fucking coward ran away.

My hands tighten around the rosary but I can't bring myself to yank it off.

For lack of anything better to do, I turn on the television. For some reason it's tuned to Sakura Television. More news about Kira and the hope he gives us, the salvation he brings to our lives. _Bullshit. _Kira's nothing but a coward and a nutjob who thinks he can play god in the crazy world. L wasn't even a criminal.

L.

The thought of him makes me want to scream, makes me want to break something – lots of things. I lash out at the television, sending it crashing down to the floor. There isn't much else nearby I can maim (stupid Spartan apartment) so my fist connects with the wall behind it harshly. I continue punching the wall until my knuckles turn bloody, kicking around until my shins and feet bruise, because there's no quiet gamer now to hold me back, take my blows like gifts. The pain distracts from the clench of my heart, but not by much.

All those years, all that work, all my hopes…and just when I _finally _take first…

I finally scream, until I think I might tear my throat. The floor is hard beneath my knees.

L died. L is dead.

L died and I'm _still _not the better one.

I think I might be going crazy because I can swear I hear Benedikt laughing.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

I must have fallen asleep at some point because the next thing I know, I'm lying amidst the mess I made, opening my eyes to the morning light. I raise my hands to rub the sleep on my eyes and – fuck, there's dried blood all over my knuckles. There's something crusty on the left side of my face, too, and when I check in the bathroom I find I nicked my forehead. Good thing I didn't bleed to death all over the apartment.

I splash my face with water, scrub the dried blood off my skin. I survey my face in the mirror. Long angel's hair, sky blue eyes, medium tan. _Boy on fire, _Matt called me before. Well right now the boy on fire looks like a wimp.

I dry my face roughly on a towel as I pad back into the room. Plan. I need a plan. I left Near at Whammy's so he'll probably be using the resources there for help. I have my laptop with the Kira research I've managed to store, but it won't be enough to get me by. I couldn't even hack my way into the files of the Japanese Police Force.

I bet Matt could if he – no. Matt is not the issue here.

Need to be rational. Cannot let emotions get the better of me.

Thank god I brought a chocolate bar with me. Now Mello, _think._

Assets. I will need assets. Capital, influence, and manpower. Some industry that stands to gain if Kira is taken down.

I look outside the apartment window, at the bustling city beneath me. If there's anything I ever learned from all the criminal cases I solved, it's that _someone always stands to gain._It's the heart of every case, the final motive. Look for the one not cutting their losses.

Politics is definitely out of the question. One government after the other is surrendering to Kira. Criminals are dying – what's not to love? That and their identities are highly public so they'll be killed if they go against – _hang on._

Criminals. Kira kills criminals who are caught, whose identities are made known. His personal brand of "justice," reluctant though I may be to use the word in his context. It's the underworld that stands the most to lose the longer Kira is out there, and stands the most to gain from his defeat. The underworld with its capital, influence, and manpower.

And the best hiding spot in the underworld is in organized crime.

My smile widens as I snap off another piece of my chocolate. Near will probably be taking a more legitimate route; he's never been one to get his hands dirty. What better way to go against both him and Kira by hacking my own niche into organized crime?

Yeah, I think I'll start with the Mafia.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Living as the son of one of Berlin's most respected police guards, and then living as an orphan at Whammy's House, definitely did _not _prepare me for the "outside world." (God, that sounds like something out of Matt's cheesy games.) I duck into a computer shop to look up flight schedules, because from the cases I've solved, I know I'd have the best chances with Mafias in Russia, Italy, and North and South America. Europe is convenient, but Kira's in Japan. I could give the Yakuza a shot but I don't know how kindly they take to foreigners. I could always go back home…

No. Not there.

That leaves me with the Americas. My hands fist in my hair. What the fuck am I thinking? I'm only fourteen with barely anything on me. The only contents of L's envelope were cash, his letter, and a passport under the name "Mello Kaen." To get anywhere I'm going to need fake IDs, more money, protection… I catch my reflection on the computer screen. I also need to look less like a wimp.

Snarling in frustration, I get up, tossing a handful of change at the bored-looking girl at the counter. This isn't going to work. I may be a genius but I've got no assets. Being a Whammy's House kid counts for shits out here, where people don't even know my former orphanage exists. My false passport lists me as being legal but I'm not very qualified to take on important jobs. I've got no leverage, nothing that could make people _want _me.

Some old guy in a side street beside the shop eyes me lecherously and I suppress a shudder. No fucking way in the dark bloody depths of hell am I sinking to _that._

Is this why L said Matt was necessary? Does he have something I need? Something that could help me? If he did then why the bloody flying fucking hell did he _leave?_

The guy outside the shop wolf-whistles at me and I resist the urge to wallop him. The self-restraint flies out the window, however, when he calls, "hey blondie!" My bag's the first thing to hit him, followed by my fist. I may have longish hair and I may be skinny but I sure as hell don't look like a fucking _girl _anymore.

A gun clatters out of his pants as I shove him to the ground.

I look at it as he whimpers.

I can almost _feel _the metal weighing heavy and promising in my hands. The shiny chrome calls to me. The man on the pavement realizes what I'm about to do a second too late. The gun's in my palm, the tip digging into his temple.

"What was it you were calling me?"

He stutters wildly, barely coherent as I turn his weapon against him and then it hits me like one of the bullets. What I hold in my hand is leverage. It's an asset. It's not money or an army of underlings, but it's _something._

Between it and my body I can make people want.

"Please – please don't kill me!"

The street is deserted. No one inside the shop seems to be paying attention. The windows around us are closed. I can take this guy's life if I want. Whether he goes home to his beer and his porn or not is all up to me.

_Scheiss, _that's a head trip.

The guy's shut up – I think I've been standing still far too long. I cock the gun nice and easy, just like I learned at Whammy's. The only difference is that the gun's loaded with real shots now, not pellets or paintballs. I'm not aiming to splatter someone's chest guard; I'm aiming to take a life.

_Mihael Keehl, age nine. Father dead in a – _no. No_. Forget Viktor Keehl. Forget paintball with Matt. Forget the fact that the most sentient thing you've ever shot through with a gun is a that half-dead bush under Near's bedroom window. _

_I am **not **scared of guns._

The shot rings out loud and clear in the side street.

The pavement is red and for a delirious moment, I'm reminded of the last time I'd played paintball with Matt. My pellets had been filled with red.

But this isn't paintball, this isn't a game – _I just fucking killed someone. _I took a live gun and put a bullet through his head. I ended a life, took one, all because he'd eyed me up the wrong way and the gun had promised secrets for my soul. I'm a killer.

"Shit – hey! Hey Leo! Some punk kid over here just shot Remy!"

I'm a killer and I have been caught.

A kick catches me in my ribs and I'm sent flying into the wall. Acting on pure instinct and desperation I catch the next blow, retaliate, counter. Every self-defense and attack I've learned over the years gets pulled out. Kick, punch, block, duck, trip, until finally, two of my three assailants are unconscious and the last one's breathing heavy, glaring murder at me. I feel the patches where the bruises will undoubtedly form tomorrow and lick the blood away from my split lip. There's a big guy in the corner – Leo, probably – who's eyeing me impassively.

"This the kid, Matt?"

Well what do you know. The guy in front of me – red hair, skinny figure, elephant pants riding so low he ought to be arrested for indecent exposure – his name is Matt.

I lift the gun that's still in my left hand (I'd pistol whipped one of the guys – not my intention, I swear) and cock it, pointing it in Leo's direction. "What's it to you?" I ask, trying to sound as cocky as the gangsters in the movies we used to have back at Whammy's.

Leo blinks, probably unused to taking flak from anyone, particularly a skinny teenage runaway. He calmly reaches into his pants and draws his own gun. "What it is, kid, is that you just shot my dealer."

"So get a new one." I try to act blasé, as if I couldn't give two shits about the gun now pointed at me. But shit, shit, _shit, _I can't die. Not now.

"Heh." A slow grin spreads over Leo's face. Matt is watching this exchange in utter confusion. I just try to keep my gun up. "You know what, kid? I think I will."

"Bloody fucking great. Now if you'll excuse me-" I'm cut off by a shot ringing out. The bullet whistles past my ear so close the shriek almost deafens me. It cracks the wall behind me and pings down on the concrete at my feet. The sound is ridiculously innocent and, for some strange reason, reminds me of the bells back at Whammy's.

"I _will _get a replacement for Remy." Leo is positively beaming now. Fuck, fuck, _fuck. _"I'll get you."

**xxxxxxxxxx**

A week later and I'm back at that side street, seven small bags of coke tucked into various places under my new leather clothes. My angel hair is cut to the chin and I'm sporting a black eye from my latest spat with one of the other runners. The pay is crap, the lodgings would make your toes curl, and we're lucky if there's enough food at all. But it's a drug cartel – it's a door into the criminal underworld – and there's always booze and leftover smack if you need it. Not that I ever tried the drugs. Seeing the states of my customers pretty much shot that idea in the butt.

Months go by and I man the street corner. I pick up regulars. Leo lets me wear a gun now, ever since the night one very high customer nearly got his hands on me. I'm a teenager and I have hormones but I damn well don't want to be raped.

I also damn well don't want to be stuck here much longer.

Kira is fucking out there. Kira is killing people as I palm the cash from the hobo from three blocks down, passing over a small Ziploc of crack. Kira killed one of the higher ups a few days ago – he'd had a heart attack right in the warehouse. Kira is who I should be dealing with, not the old man down from Manchester who keeps looking at me like I'm a particularly well-done steak.

What finally tips it for me is when I pick up a stray paper on the way back to the base. I pause to browse it (I've learned quickly enough that if you "act smart" or "think you're better than them" the rest of the boys turn you into a punching bag), and there, resplendent on page fifteen, is an article about this genius kid breaking into the feds. Nathaniel Lawliet.

Funnily enough, he's an albino.

I'm running full tilt for the base before the shreds of the newspaper even hit the ground.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Using the money I stole from the drug profits and a fake ID I got from the business I get myself to Los Angeles. It was a snap decision at the airport, but it's rife with illegal activity, it's on the coast nearest Japan, and their Mafias are pretty strong. I bring nothing but my new clothes, some smack, and a book with the chocolate wrapper, the photograph, and L's letter tucked inside. The guards at Heathrow eyed me weirdly but let me through. They've probably seen bigger freaks than me.

When I get to LA my first thought is _it's bloody fucking hot. _I don't even know if the pavements have ever _heard _of rain, let alone experience it. I have a few hundred dollars on me, but that's the extent of my resources. I am essentially back at square one.

"You okay, kid?"

And now there's a weirdo talking to me.

I size him up. He's actually a lot like me (heaven forbid I repeat that thought to myself). Blonde, leather, skinny. But he's smoking a cigarette. I've worn a gun enough times to know what the contour looks like underneath clothing. Safety pins glint at his ears.

"Fine," I answer shortly. This guy just _might _be involved in some illegal activity – he's carrying a gun, after all – but he doesn't seem to be the type I need.

"Alone?"

"Why do you care?"

An easy grin plays on his lips. "Nothing much." He inhales, expertly blows the smoke out without removing the cigarette. "Looking for a job?"

"Do you make a habit of offering work to children you see on the street?" I'm already pissed from the heat; this guy is not making things better. But I'm a fifteen-year-old genius-orphanage-runaway with nothing on him, in a foreign city, looking for criminal work – talking to this stranger a few blocks from the airport can't make things much worse.

"Just the ones I think are interesting." He offers me a cigarette and I wrinkle my nose. "It's the leather."

"I figured."

"You good at anything?"

I weigh my options carefully. On the one hand, this guy could get me somewhere. A Mafia, a drug cartel, illegal shipments – something in the line of work I'm looking at. On the other hand, he could sell me to a brothel where I'll have to work as a manwhore.

I think I'll take my chances.

"Guns. Drugs." I shrug as if these things are totally normal hobbies for a scrawny teenage boy. Swallowing emotions has never been my strong point but L said, L said. _Keep your emotions in check._

"Guns and drugs, huh?" There's a glint in this guy's eyes that I simultaneously do not like and am curious about. He flicks away his cigarette and holds out his hand. "The name's Connor. Ever think of working in the Mafia?"

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Two months later and I'm a Mafia soldier.

Ten months later and the boss – Rod Ross – decides he likes me so much, he gives me a promotion. I've done drug runs, I've shot people, I've been beaten up and bitched over. I've lost both my virginities – not pleasant experiences, both of them – and my sense of morality. I'm one step closer to where I want to be.

It's been two years since I left Whammy's House. I'm skinnier than a ghost, bruised in places I didn't even know existed, and well on my way to earning a reputation as a crazy, genius kid.

Life is good.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Three weeks after my promotion to Capo, there's an uproar in the tech room. We've changed hackers recently – the last one was worth shit; some two-bit noob jumped one of our drug transactions and rerouted half the stash – and the new one's supposed to be covering the tracks of the latest gun shipment.

"I thought this piece of shit is supposed to be one of the best hackers money can buy?" Rod's losing it. I hear a few shots go off. Most of the underlings in the room look scared, some even leave. Me? I pick up my Glock and saunter into the tech room.

"I am the bloody best money can buy!" The hacker's halfway out of his chair, hands held up in a defensive position across his chest. "But you can't buy that guy off – he doesn't work for anybody!"

The gun cracks across his cheek as Rod pistol whips him. He does it again for good measure, then jerks it toward the rest of the members around the room.

"Someone get me Mello! He's the one the fucker's after."

Who, me?

"I'm right here, Rod." I do my best to keep my voice neutral, because inside is chaos. Someone's _after me? _Jesus fuck, is it Near? Roger? Did they somehow catch hold of my less-than-desirable activities and are now coming to get my ass back to England? "Who's after me?"

"The world's most wanted hacker." He jerks his head in the direction of the screen. "Bloody fucking PlayAGame."

_Shit._ I spare the computer screens a glance before turning back to Rod. "I don't bloody fucking know why the world's most wanted hacker is after me."

The words on the screen blink at me. Mello –PlayAGame?–. An invitation, a challenge. The underworld by now has learned to never say yes to –PlayAGame?–, because no one ever wins.

"Well you've obviously done _something _because he's goddamn _asking _for yo-"

The text suddenly changes. We watch, perplexed, as letter by letter my name disappears. For a moment the alias and the blank are all that's left, then a word gets typed in. I find my lips mouthing each letter as it appears, tongue instinctively forming syllables as the word is formed.

M…I…H…A…E…L

…_Mihael._

Wait a minute.

Wait. A. Fucking. Minute.

However counterproductive to my reputation, my mouth drops open.

That name. That bloody fucking… _PlayAGame._

"_Hey Mello, do you want to play a game with me?"_

On the screen: Mihael –PlayAGame?–.

The blank underneath, the bar flashing. Waiting for a response.

_One of the movie nights in the common room, Mello more scared than he let on. Matt jumping him as he came out of the shower, aluminum ruler to his throat like a knife, lips to his ear. "Play a game with me."_

The world's most wanted hacker.

"_Mello, play a game with me."_

_Usernames in online gaming sites, a signature in every website. An invitation and a challenge. Play a game with me. Play a game._

"Play a game." My eyes widen, fingers reaching down to the cross on my chest. –PlayAGame?– the screen says. Play a game?

"_Hey Mello, wanna play a game?"_

"_Mello, play a game with me."_

How the bloody fuck did I never realize?

The one thing Matt wanted most from me, the one thing I could do to make Matt incredibly happy.

_Matt booting up his Xbox, controller in hand, thin scratch beneath torn shirt. The goofy smile that spread over his face when Mello asked him to toss the other controller over._

_Play a game with me._

"A game." It's barely a whisper. Some genius I am. All these months and I never got it.

_When the time comes, you'll know how to find me._

Without a word I shove the hacker aside. One of my hands reaches for the keys, the other turning over the rosary to check that one word carved on its back, a word long committed to memory.

_You'll know how to find me._

With trembling fingers, I type in letters I know by heart.

_J-E-E-V-A-S_

The _clack _of the enter button echoes throughout the completely silent room.

_You'll know._

The screen blacks out and for a heartbeat and a breath I'm scared I've done wrong.

"_Mello, play a game with me."_

_You'll know how to find me._

The screen turns white, a Gothic J smack in the center.

J. Jeevas.

_Three envelopes on a desk. One with an N, one an M, and strangely, one a J._

Matt.

"_Found me,_" comes a familiar voice from the computer speakers, and I can almost see Matt's smile.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

_**A/N **Long chapter is long – 9 pages, 4000+ words! But unlike Matt's long paragraphs and pained monologues, Mello has choppy bits of anger. I hope it wasn't too boring?_

_I debated putting the ending in another chapter, but then I didn't really know what would happen. I thought about Matt helping Mello rise to Consigliere (the Mafia boss's right-hand man) in secret – hacking things for him, causing distractions during espionage missions, that sort of stuff – but I also wanted to bring them together as soon as possible. And then separate them again (this is not a spoiler – you guys read the prologue!). I might rewrite if I tend toward the former – but let me know what you think, first! R&R, please?_


	15. Reunion

_**A/N **Wow, guys! So many reviews coming in… you all make me blush. Haha! I'm so glad you're all enjoying my story. I promise to keep writing to the best of my ability so I never disappoint!_

_A little heads up – I edited the Matt: II chapter a little, to give Matt a little more emotional depth. I'm also wondering, did no one pick up on the fact that Connor met both Matt AND Mello in LA? And, well…I think if you notice and you think about it you might get what I'm hinting at hahaha. I d'know._

_So Matt and Mello have found each other again! Xinde, I still have three years to cover – I'll swing back to the canon story, with the kidnapping and all, soon, but not just yet. Find out why in this chapter! (And in the chapters to follow.)_

**xxxxxxxxxx**

"_Found me._"

Well plumb me out and call me a dickhead. Or whatever it is you can say in these situations.

Matt. Is –PlayAGame?–. My former friend and roommate. Is the world's most wanted hacker. Has managed to find me in the Mafia. Has _contacted _me through the Mafia. And is probably going to get me into some serious trouble. Right now.

Rod cocks his gun menacingly. Yeah, dead serious trouble.

"Mello. Twenty seconds. _Explain._"

Twenty? Well that's generous.

Think, Mello. _Think. _There has got to be a way for me to turn this to my advantage. I can't slip from Rod's good books now, not when I need that next promotion this fucking _badly. _Kira and Near are on the move and I can't afford to be sitting still in the ranks. Now _think._

Aha.

"Boss." A wild grin splits my lips as I gaze at Matt's alias on the screen. "How would you like to have the world's most wanted hacker working for you?"

The gun dips and Rod's eyes widen. Bingo.

"Wait – what?" Ah shit, stupid hacker. "No! _I'm _your hacker – you can't fucking hire –PlayAGame?–! He's impossible to get – I'll do better this time, I swear, I-"

"_Shut up, Carlos. You can't beat me worth shit._" Matt's patient voice drifts out of the speakers and we all blink, confused. Who the fuck is Carlos? Beside me, the hacker starts and sputters and – ah. _He's _Carlos.

"How the fuck did you – my name – I never-!"

Rod's arm swings around faster than a whip and a shot rings out. The hacker shrieks, collapses, blood spurting from his leg. The gun clicks again and swings back to me.

'You were saying?" Rod deadpans, his expression deadly serious.

"_Shouldn't you be asking __**me **__if I'll work for you?_" I can hear the smile in Matt's voice. He'd better be thankful he isn't here because I would totally shoot his nuts off for saying that. Just play along, you bloody bastard, you're going to get me killed here! "_I might consider it if you can afford me._"

"Ma-guh!" I'm cut off by Rod jamming the barrel of his gun to the base of my jaw. _Shit, shit, shit!_

"My payment, kid, is not shooting your friend over here."

"_How do you know he's my friend?_" WHAT? Bastard – I'm going to be fucking _killed _over here – just say yes so you can save my ass!

"You were looking for him." The hand not occupied with his gun moves to yank up my hair so Rod can dig his gun into me better. Wonderful.

"_I look for a lot of people. It's part of my work._" Does this asshole _not _care that I have a gun practically down my throat over here? I can't even whop my way out of this because the second I so much as touch Rod, fifteen different guns will be emptying their caches on me.

"So what makes little _Mihael _here so special?" _Maaaaaatt – just say yes you little piece of fucking shit!_ I can tell by Rod's voice he's segueing from amused curiosity to genuine irritation now. Matt's silence doesn't help. "Will you take it or not?"

_Need a plan, need a plan, Matt you fucktard, just accept, need a plan-!_

Before my thoughts can get very far, the room is abruptly plunged into darkness. Rod actually lets go of me in shock. I massage my scalp for a moment before backing the fuck away and crouching by the chair. If I live through this, I swear, I am hunting Matt down even if it kills me, and then I'm going to kill _him. _Around me, people are panicking, and some shots actually go off – and then several thuds emanate from the next room.

There's a collective intake of breath and a silence as the door opens. A symphony of safeties flicking off greets a silhouette of a man, black on black to the darkness of the hideout.

Somewhere in front of me, Rod growls low in his throat.

My finger twitches on the trigger of my Glock.

"Heh." There's a chuckle from the silhouette and suddenly, a globe of light flashes, and ridiculously I think of angels.

In actuality, it comes from a lighter.

The tiny flame moves up and illuminates a striped shirt, leather gloves, a cigarette dangling from thin lips and a pair of orange swim goggles.

_Matt._

He lights his cigarette casually – as if his life isn't in imminent danger – and flicks the lighter closed. The tip of his smoke glows eerily in the darkness.

A single shot rings out but, from the sound of it, pings harmlessly off the wall.

There's a click and the lights come back on and for the first time in two years I lay eyes on my (former?) friend.

He's leaning against the door frame, cellphone in one hand and cigarette in the other. His dirty boots lace up over much-worn skinny jeans. Leather gloves go over the sleeves of his red-and-black striped shirt. His hair is just like back at Whammy's – a hopeless and tangled mess – but he's boned up some. Or at least, he doesn't look as unhealthy as he did back at school. A gun dangles from his hips like it's nothing. His goggles hide his eyes just as always.

I think he chose to be a hacker so the world wouldn't have to see what a dweeb he really is.

He exhales smoke and smiles at us like we're all going to be the best of friends. His left hand brings the cellphone to his cheek.

"Yeah," and his voice echoes through the speakers as that goddamn fucking stupid goofy grin spreads over his face, "I think I'll take it."

**xxxxxxxxxx  
>xxxxxxxxxx<strong>

The first thing Mello does when we're alone is pistol whip me.

The gun cracks on my cheek – mercifully missing my goggles – and doesn't wait for me to recover before crashing into the other one. His foot introduces itself to my gut three times over; his fist reacquaints itself with my shoulders and chest and jaw; his ankle catches mine and topples me. He must have learned to fight something good these past two years because it takes this long before I can catch his next blow. That or I'm just out of shape – my last field job was months ago.

I catch his next punch and use the momentum to bring myself upright. His knee finds my gut but I force myself not to be winded, choosing instead to grab his wrist and twist him with it. I press him against the wall, yanking his arm behind him – part of me actually half-expects him to call "uncle." He just steps on my foot like a spoiled child and tries to wriggle out of my grasp.

"Fuck you," he spits out, foot slamming repeatedly down on my toes. Which hurts a lot more than I let on. I think he might actually put that foot out of business.

"Down, Mello," I tease, licking my split lip. He doesn't deign to respond, only pinches the arm holding him, hard. I let go reflexively and he jerks me back.

"What the fuck was all that about?" he yells, practically stabbing me in the face with his gun.

"Nice to see you too, Mells." I back off, going cross-eyed on the barrel of the Glock, but freeze when it goes off, the bullet whistling right past my ear. _Jesus_, he's got aim.

"Were you _trying _to get me killed, Jeevas? I had a fucking gun down my fucking throat for Christ's sake!" Suddenly I am very, _very _thankful for my goggles, because the boy on fire right now is an inferno. The use of my last name jolts my heart into beating a thousand times a second – until I realize I actually gave it to him, on the back of my rosary. It dangles from his neck, stark against the black of his leather. Mello actually looks pretty good in leather.

Is it me or am I just kind of forgetting that he's piss fucking livid at me right now and my ass is on the line?

"'You've got me now, don't you?" I reach into my pocket for a cigarette – and Mello shoots it neatly away, right from between my fingers. _Whoa_.

"Yes, and I am _this _fucking close to kicking you out!" He stalks forward and raps the butt of his gun against my already bleeding cheek. "Why the _fuck _did you do that?"

On the word "fuck" his voice cracks ever so slightly, barely noticeable, even, but it's enough for me to look up. Through the orange tint of my goggles I can see his eyes boring into mine and I know he's not just asking about what happened in the room. Beneath the leather and the Mafia bravado I see the fourteen-year-old Mello who hammered on our door two years ago, telling me to let him the fuck in because he wanted to know what was going on – and maybe, just _maybe, _wanted to know if I was all right.

Amazing how two years can change us.

"I had to." In one quiet sentence I answer all his questions, asked and unasked. The inferno dies down.

"Fuck you," he repeats, but this time with far less venom and far more pain. And then his chest is against mine, his face pressed to the crook of my neck, his Glock digging into my spine and his elbows jab my ribs. He's far too proud to cry and we both know it. And just as if we're fourteen again, as if we're back at Whammy's and all that's happened is that Near's just beat him on the latest rankings test, I hold him up and hold him close. He smells different now – gunpowder and alcohol and stale sweat – but there's a whiff of chocolate on his vest and it makes me smile.

Amazing how two years can't change _us._

**xxxxxxxxxx  
>xxxxxxxxxx<strong>

It took me two years to forget how it felt to have Matt be the one to hold me up, and two minutes of arguing to remember all too well.

I'm still pissed at the kid but I'm glad I've got someone, anyone. Though of anyone I'd rather it be Matt.

Two years working in organized crime doesn't make you many friends, and despite everything I've made everyone believe about me, I'm not exempt from the human need to have one.

**xxxxxxxxxx  
>xxxxxxxxxx<strong>

"This isn't fucking working!"

Two weeks later and Mello's right back to his old, Whammy self. Can't say I'm not happy. Though I do wish he hadn't shot my Squall Leonhart action figure in a fit of anger; I liked having him around. He looked good next to Cloud.

"What?" I don't bother looking up from where I'm sprawled on the couch of my apartment, eyes glued to my DS. One look at Mello's piss-for-shits apartment, two days after our "reunion," had me practically begging him to stay with me. I don't live extravagant but I do like comforts, and my place is markedly more sanitary than his. The first night we slept here – me on the couch and him on the bed across the room – it was almost like back at Whammy's. When I woke up the next morning to take care of some work I half-imagined hearing bells.

"I'm fucking working my ass off in that goddamn Mafia and Rod's just _dangling _the promotion out of my reach!" The first victim to his rage mode is an empty bottle of beer lolling on the floor. It shatters against the wall with a satisfying _smash. _"I'm worth shit in the fight against Kira if I don't have any decent assets!"

"So get some." On screen, I struggle to combat the newest strain of GUILT before this patient dies on me – fuck his vitals are dropping. Syringe, syringe…

Two seconds after my stylus leaves the screen, a bullet smashes into it.

"MELLO WHAT THE FUCK!" I bellow, tossing the dead portable console aside and wheeling about in anger. I stop short when I meet the barrel of his 9mm Beretta. Wow that's close.

"You're supposed to be _helping _me, you fucker, not slouching around like a retard." His gun digs between my eyebrows. I try not to go cross-eyed.

"Since when did I sign up for that?" Something about Mello really lowers my sense of self-preservation. The guy has a very dangerous gun with hollow-point bullets pressed to my skin and I'm mocking him. I'm a goddamn genius.

I'm really glad L decided to tell Mello to remember to "keep his emotions in check" because instead of pistol whipping me like I know he wants to, Mello just inhales very deeply, socks me on the shoulder and stalks into my tiny kitchen, presumably for – yep, a chocolate bar.

_Connor, _my mind says, and thankfully corrects itself before the name leaves my lips. But I can't deny the situation reminds me of him, slightly – a blonde swaggering around a tiny kitchen in tight leather, wondering about Mafia work. I force my heart to keep pulsing. "Mello."

"What," he gets around the chocolate bar in his mouth.

"You want to get promoted?"

"No, _scheisskopf, _I want to never move from where I am, ever."

I let the sarcasm whistle over my head. "Then do something drastic."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Something big." I fumble around absentmindedly for a laptop, vaguely remembering that I might have a hack job that needs to be done. "Something horribly effective but horribly reckless, because telling you to be careful is like telling you to not eat chocolate."

The silence that greets my reply tells me Mello's thinking long and hard about this. Part of me is worried about him working in the Mafia like this – look at what happened to Connor – but I know I can't stop him even if I prostrated myself on the ground with a hundred bags of Green and Blacks to lay at his feet.

I wonder if my DS is salvageable. Mello's bullets are 9mm hollow points, so maybe not. Damn.

Suddenly Mello's mouth is right next to my ear and I jump a mile into the air. "Maaaattie."

"What?" I don't even understand myself – the "what" was more choked air than word and voice, really – but Mello seems to get me just fine.

"You're here to help me, riiiiight?" His voice is honey and venom in my ear and for some reason it and his warm breath on my skin has my heart running a million miles a second. Shit, Mello.

"Y-yeah?" Smooth moves, Jeevas. Way to sound like a nervous teenage girl about to be kissed by her ultimate crush.

"You told Rod before that you find people as part of your job, mmmm?" His fingers stroke the back of my hand oh-so-lightly and it gives me the shivers – and I can't say if it isn't entirely unpleasant or no.

"Yeaaahh…"

"Then could you find someone for me?" His lips brush my ear and I whimper. I goddamn fucking_ whimper. _What the fuck is happening here?

"O-okay…?" My cheek is digging into the couch in my attempt to be as far away from him as this claustrophobic space will allow. I don't think Mello has ever been this up close and _intimate _with me since… ever. Call me what you will but it's enough to freak me out. His fingers stop their stroking and his nails dig into my hand.

"Find me the boss of the Carusso LA Mafia."

**xxxxxxxxxx  
>xxxxxxxxxx<strong>

My original plan was to kill the boss of our biggest rival – a boss even Kira couldn't get his hands on – and take back some sort of evidence to Rod. I mean, what bigger favor can you do your Mafia boss, right? The Carusso Mafia would fucking _crumble _without leadership, especially since (at least, this is what I've heard) their Consigliere is currently in Europe. And then Rod can just swoop in and take the spoils.

The plan changes, though, when four days later Matt hesitantly taps me on the shoulder, laptop in hand. I'm splayed out on the couch, feet up on his shitty coffee table littered with makeshift ashtrays. I've just come home from a long-ass day of supervising drug runs and I'm piss fucking livid.

I look up, ready to rag him out, but the swear words die at the look on his face. I've seen more than my fair share of grave and serious faces in my seventeen years of life, but none of them come close to Matt's. His lips are drawn in a thin line and even behind their goggles his eyes stop my heart.

"Mello." It's the only word he says before he hands me the laptop.

I take one look at the screen.

My chocolate bar gets obliterated by my fingers. Even the wrapper gets punctured by my nails. I'd fucking devastate the whole fucking apartment if I wasn't frozen in place.

His last name is different but there's no mistaking that face. There's no mistaking that thatch of dark blonde hair and there is _definitely _no mistaking those eyes. He's gaunter, less graceful, but it's still him. It's still fucking him.

It's only Matt's hand on my wrist that stops me from snapping his laptop in two as I glare bloody murder at the boss of the Carusso LA Mafia, Benedikt Tenner, a man I know as Benedikt Keehl.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

_**A/N **CLIFFHANGER WOOPEE!_

_Yes, I'm that evil. Short chapter (shorter than the previous ones, at least) but pretty loaded! Especially that last bit. WHO WAS EXPECTING THAT? HAHAHA._

_Next chapter will be longer and then the chapter after that, we will FINALLY return to canon. So, read and review, please?_


	16. Brother

_**A/N **Okay that was evil, wasn't it? Haha! But it was so much fun to write! As was this chapter. We all know Mello gets his rank in the Mafia by bringing in the head of a rival Mafia boss even Kira couldn't kill. And now, he will._

_Cue drumroll._

**xxxxxxxxxx**

For five days solid I do nothing but eat, nap and boss Matt around. If five days ago I was determined to bring down the boss of the Carusso Mafia for brownie points with Rod, now I'm borderline obsessed. I stake out their supposed hideouts. I prowl their territory. On the third day I actually fucking dress up in drag and neck around with their drug dealer to get information.

_Matt on his laptop, working his way around the Carusso hacker's security. His fingers nearly slip up and cost him his tracks when he sees Mello come out of the bathroom, all decked out in leather – but a different kind of leather, a very different kind than usual._

"_Is that-?" His voice loses its nerve halfway through the sentence and it's a while before there's enough saliva in his mouth to form coherent words. Mello, in some continuing lapse of sanity, waits patiently by the door, ghost of a smirk on his lips. "Is that a…s-skirt?"_

"_Yes, Mattie." For shits and giggles Mello twirls once, making Matt's eyes bug out of his skull. Hooooly shit. "Yes it is."_

_By the time Matt hauls his mind out of the gutter he absolutely does not want it to be in, to ask Mello why and how the fuck he shoved his skinny torso into a corset, Mello's out the door, heeled boots thunking down the stairwell._

I will need every last bit of information I can get my hands on to pull this off. I make Matt get his hands on everything, from the routes of their drug shipments to the underwear brands of their whores. Throughout the course of his hacking and espionage, he has only complained once.

"_I need to know the delivery schedules of their next ten ammunition shipments stat."_

"_Five minutes; I need to finish this canyon race."_

_Five seconds later a bullet crashes through the TV. The next one finds the PS2. The controller is neatly shot out of Matt's hand._

"_Jesus, Mello, can't you wait five fucking minutes before I-"_

_The last bullet knocks the cigarette from Matt's mouth just as he turns. It passes so close he feels the wind of it against his chapped lips, hears the scream of the air it tears through. Every bone in his body locks and freezes; his heart's beating so fast it doesn't feel like it's beating at all. He forgets what it means to breath._

_Seven feet away, Mello quietly refills his cache and fixes the silencer of his gun as if he hasn't almost shot his friend's jaw to Kingdom Come._

_Matt somehow manages to recover his voice from the dust of his lungs and his terror._

"_Delivery schedules of the next ten ammunition shipments. Right. Got it."_

The only thing solid thing he's told me about his letter from L is that he's here to help me. I don't get a _why _or a _how _or a _what for, _but I'll be damned if I don't get obedience.

"Bee mikes ones."

It takes me ten full seconds before I realize Matt's talking to me. I tear my eyes from the blueprints on the coffee table, the blueprints of their hideout that Matt's managed to acquire god-knows-how from god-knows-where. He looks just as bad as I feel but that's the price to pay if you want to take down a rival Mafia. Or well, that's the price to pay if your friend is hell bent on taking down a rival Mafia and will shoot your entire apartment down if you don't help him.

"Pardon?"

I can actually see the physical manifestations of Matt's restraint as he fights not to roll his eyes at me. I don't know what's happened to him these two long years, but he's definitely gotten to be more of a prick.

"He likes blondes."

"What?"

A picture is abruptly shoved down my throat. Or practically, given its proximity to my face.

"Benedikt. His whores. He likes them blonde."

Sure enough, when I yank the photo back far enough for my eyes to focus, there's a blurry – but still recognizable – Benedikt in a club, two trashy blonde girls on either side of him.

"You're not thinking what I think you're thinking."

"You want all the information, you get all the information."

"_Verpiss dich, dummkopf._"

**xxxxxxxxxx  
>xxxxxxxxxx<strong>

To say Mello's pushing his limit is a bit of an understatement, really. I don't think this is about getting into Rod's best books anymore. This has gone far beyond moving up rank. If the Mafia boss had been anyone else – hell, even if the Mafia boss was someone we knew from Whammy's – Mello would have only seen him as another stepping stone to winning his fight against Near and Kira. Another tool to gain another asset.

But the Mafia boss is Benedikt Tenner, neé Keehl, and Mello's freaking obsessed with bringing in his head. Possibly literally. Because Benedikt Keehl was – is – Mello's star-studded older brother, a ghost from his past, a person no longer disappeared. I know from the records that after Mello's mother died, Benedikt was nowhere to be found. But now he's back from the dead, a Mafia Boss. Even now, almost a decade later, after all Mello's put himself through – the hell he jumped into, the shit he's done – after his father's and mother's and after L's death and fighting his way to the Capo rank, Benedikt is still, _still, _better.

And I thought his always coming second to Near was bad.

"_He's the boss."_

"_Yes."_

"_Of the Carusso Mafia."_

"_Yes."_

"_In Los Angeles."_

"_That is where we are."_

_Mello's eyes flash steel and fury, in a way Matt is sure would make Death himself quail and keel over. The boy on fire blazes in front of him, a contained, raging firestorm just waiting to blow. The orange tint of goggles just makes him burn all the more fiercely, and Matt can only think that despite all the killings and hits and hacks he's done, now is when he feels bravest, because now he stands right in the heart of Mello's white-hot inferno without flinching._

"_I'm going to kill him."_

"_That's the plan."_

I'll admit – I was actually surprised Mello didn't just take off there and then, when I'd handed him the laptop, and go into the hideout, guns blazing and fury imploding, like Death all riled up. He's had me locked up in the apartment researching, researching, furtive and thorough, while he goes and hunts down what I can't look up.

On the sixth day I wake up to a setting sun, a half-drunk cup of hot chocolate, and no Mello.

I don't bother putting on a clean shirt or washing my face or tugging on my goggles, though I do down a glass of water. Then I open my laptop – the one I made at Watari's request, my best one, the most untraceable and protected one – and tap into the video feeds of the club his brother frequents. And then into the Carusso security. Two years between us and I can still read Mello like a book.

I flex my fingers as video feeds and programs begin to pop up on screen.

Is this what Watari meant in his letter? _I trust you will make the right choices for yourself, and for Mello._

I can't let Mello down now. I need to take care of my boy on fire. I chose him, after all.

**xxxxxxxxxx  
>xxxxxxxxxx<strong>

"Who're you?"

The big bald guy at the VIP section entrance eyes me suspiciously, but I hold my ground. I'm dressed in full-on drag now – fishnets, contacts, fake boobs, corset; the works. My dignity has been cast aside, set on fire, shit on, and stampeded over by a herd of drunken elephants. If this fucker doesn't let me in I will butcher him into _letting me the fuck in._

"Kayla Cerise." I force myself to bat my eyelashes at the lech, layering a sultry purr over my words. And here I'd prided myself on never whoring out for a promotion. Or whoring in general. "A present for the boss."

"Who sent you?"

"Casper?" Their Consigliere, currently in Europe. "Mail order?"

He gives me another once-over, eyes lingering a little too long on my "waist" (which took me ten full minutes of tugging and cussing and flailing around in the bathroom to cinch; I can't fucking breath) and "chest" before nodding and letting me through. I'm about to stomp in when I remember I'm supposed to be a whore. I lilt my hips as I walk to the best of my abilities (not very well, but what perv can tell the difference, right?) and brush my hand against his ass as I pass by.

And then wipe it extensively on my leather skirt as soon as he turns his back.

I swear, I think I'm going to die of asphyxiation before I get within ten feet of my _dearest brother._

The club is packed. The lights are enough to send a blind man into seizures. The music would blow a deaf person's ears. The crowd is dense, the smell of sweat and alcohol and too many perfumes enough to knock someone out. In this curtained-off section of the VIP space, the Carusso Mafia sits, trading whores and dirty jokes and hits of smack. Benedikt lounges on the most extravagant chair – it's almost a throne, really – a simpering girl on his lap, palming him through his slacks.

Well at least he's dressed nicely.

"Yeah?"

Their top dealer, the guy I necked with a few days back, looks up sluggishly, squinting at me in the whirlwind of technicolor lights.

I ignore him (and the three guns I see in the hands of the others in the booth) and saunter up to Benedikt, swallowing the urge to punch him then and there. _Keep your emotions in check. _This cannot be done if I give in now. I cannot beat him if I give myself away.

"Casper sent me," I purr, sweetly, fingers playing with the zipper of my top. "A little present."

He pushes the whore on his lap aside and stands to meet me. Even in my heels I come level to his chest, reminding me of the eight years between us. Here he is, nine years later, after I'd thought him dead and gone, after he'd haunted my dreams. He's right in front of me, smelling of gunpowder and sex and power and alcohol, the buttons of his shirt one off-kilter. He's influential and commanding and scarred and _still fucking better than me._

If I wasn't so convinced this would help me win Rod over, I would have clawed his eyes out by now.

"And who might _you _be?" he slurs, eyes fixating on my "rack."

"The one who'll be making you scream tonight." Forget killing Benedikt, I think I might kill myself.

"Is that so?" His hands hover over my hips, my shoulders, before taking my wrists in a surprisingly gentle move. He pulls me over to him but I shake my head.

"I don't want to wait," I whisper. _I don't want to wait to kill you, _my mind shrieks. This is beyond a promotion, now. Beyond Kira, even. I am seven-year-old Mihael again, and Benedikt has just beaten me at one more thing, just like he does with everything else. And with everything behind me, everything I have done to get myself where I am now, I hate him a hundred times more than ever. And I am finally in a position to act on that hatred.

He chuckles low and licks up my neck, making me shudder – and not in the good way. "I like them impatient," he mouths against my skin, before getting up and gesturing to a door on his right. Around us, his goons chuckle.

The door has barely locked behind us when my gun is out and my hand is clamped down on his mouth.

"Now, Benedikt Keehl," I purr, this time with true enjoyment as I watch his eyes widen at the use of his _real _name, "let's make you scream."

**xxxxxxxxxx**

The music is so loud I don't hear the gunshot.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

In the days leading up to this I'd pictured how it would go time and again.

I'd thought that when I finally put that 9mm hollow point through his skull I'd feel exhilarated. Aroused, even, maybe. High on the thought that the boy who trod over my childhood accomplishments was dead at my hands. I'd thought I'd manically riddle his body with bullets, revel in the blood that flowed from each hole. Laugh, even. Drink in the sight like ambrosia.

I'd thought I'd gut his throat and savor every inch I cut through.

But underneath the Mafia bravado, the inferiority complex, the genius mind and the anger, I find I'm still a boy with an older brother.

I never told him who I was but my name was still the last thing to fall from his lips.

He was still a boy with a brother, too.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Back at base, Rod and the rest are horrified and shocked as I toss Benedikt's head onto the table. They look from the head to me to the head to me. I'm wearing Benedikt's bloodstained button-down, undone, over a stolen pair of jeans and boots one size too big. Matt's rosary is rough to my chest, the Jeevas carving scratching my skin. Benedikt's class bracelet is loose on my wrist.

I'd tried to lug his body out but he was too heavy. He was weighed down with both my sins and his and I wasn't strong enough to pull it all.

"The Carusso turf is yours." I jerk my head once in the direction of the bloody, mangled head. "Their boss was my brother."

The only thing I can say of myself right now is that my voice did not crack when I said that.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Matt's staring at the computer screen when I throw open the door to the apartment. He starts, obviously not expecting me back just yet. I know from the expression on his face that he watched the whole damn thing. I also know he's deleted any and every trace of it.

Matt's just always two steps ahead, isn't he?

He moves forward, making to take my wrist, but he barely gets two steps before my gun is up between us, flush to his chest. I keep my eyes fixed on the point where gun meets shirt so my bangs hide my face but I know he can read me – read the slump of my shoulders, the shaking of my arm. He can read that I'm scared and shaken and sad – and a little relieved, but only a little. Only a little.

"How did you know?" My voice is raw as it comes out of my throat. Each word feels like sandpaper in my trachea.

"Mello-"

"How did you know?" My hand shakes wilder. "You knew – when you handed me that laptop you _knew _who he was. You knew my name and you knew his and you _knew _when L died and-!" The gun slips from my fumbling fingers but I don't pick it up, I just grab Matt's collar and twist until I think I might strangle him. "HOW? How the _fuck _did you know?"

I'm crying now. I never thought I'd shed tears over my brother's death but right now I'm fucking sobbing in Matt's studio apartment, hands painfully twisted up in his shirt. I never thought I'd shed tears for anyone's death after my father's but here they are, pouring down my cheeks like rain. Benedikt. _Mein bruder _Benedikt.

I still can't look at Matt full on but I feel the weight of his gaze on me and I know this is another one of those times where he won't answer. Because I may be his boy on fire, I may be the violent and crazy one, the Mafia Capo, but Matt – Matt will always be the one with the secrets.

"And why did you never tell me?" The question is more sobs and choked air than words and voice but that doesn't matter, does it, because Matt won't answer. Matt never answers.

"Mello," is all he says, as he gently pries my hands from his shirt and leads me to the couch. He pushes me down, carefully, and pulls over the medical kit he'd had waiting on the coffee table. Slowly he takes my arms, wipes away the dirt and the blood, cleans the cuts from Benedikt's struggle and my shaky grip on the knife and bandages me. He finds every fucking injury and takes care of it. He takes care of me.

Matt's always taken care of me.

Benedikt's button down feels too soft. Matt's hands feel too warm and not enough.

As he stands to go and throw away the used cotton swabs and bandage wrappers, he hesitates. His fingers creep over to my hair, tucking my bangs behind my ear. His figure is against the light so I can't read his expression.

"I'm a hacker, Mello." That's it. And then he goes into the bathroom to clean up. That's it. But it's enough. Because for the first time since the first wall of secrets came up between us, Matt has given me an answer.

It's not until the bathroom door has clicked behind him that I realize he had his goggles off the whole time and I didn't look into his eyes even once.

**xxxxxxxxxx  
>xxxxxxxxxx<strong>

As I tuck the medical kit back into the cabinet in my bathroom my hands scrabble with the bottle of antiseptic for a moment and then I remember, I remember that day back at Whammy's when Mello finally overtook me but not Near. I remember cleaning his knuckles, bandaging them, and I remember feeling that in the future I would be doing that and more for him. I look at the faintly pink swirls of water in the sink and think of the blonde boy – because boy he still is, for all his leather and bloody hands – the boy I left on the couch. The boy who it seems will do anything to rise to the top, even murder his own brother.

The boy who is still a boy, and who had a brother.

_How did you know?, _he'd asked. _I'm a hacker, Mello_. I hacked Whammy's, plain and simple. Three years ago Watari asked me to tap into his system far enough to learn your name and with it I learned everything. I learned about your family and your history and your meetings with L. But just because Watari's dead, doesn't mean I can't keep promises.

He's still sitting there, in that too-big button down, when I get back. His hands are tight around my rosary and his lips are moving – barely, without sound, but moving.

His promotion comes three days later.

"Congratulations," I say, hesitantly, not knowing if I should smile or no. To my surprise, he wraps his arms around me, in a gesture far too gentle and soft to be coming from him. He holds me as if he's not sure he should be touching me, but his breath is warm to my skin. My boy on fire is a quiet hearth flame.

"Thanks, Stripes."

**xxxxxxxxxx**

_**A/N **So did that make up for the horrible cliffhanger I left you guys with? I hope it did. I had a bit of a hard time mingling the start of a romance between Matt and Mello with Mello killing his brother. Did I manage to pull it all off?_

_Keep reviewing, please! It makes me very, very happy._

_Oh, and "mein bruder" means "my brother" in German. I think.  
><em>


	17. Progress

_**A/N **__Heads up! Won't be updating for a while because I've got a Physics removals exam to study for. So leave me lots of pretty reviews to come back to, and to make my happy after I fail, okay? Okay. Thanks._

_I love how much love this fanfic has gotten. I really hope I don't disappoint. Especially now that I'm about to hype up the tension between these two beautiful boys!_

_Chapter time! Big time skips ahead._

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Benedikt's bloody button-down hangs in the closet, the only item of soft white in all my black leather.

"_Do I wash it, Consigliere Mello?"_

"_No."_

"_Soak?"_

"_No."_

"_Spra-"_

"_Matt." Suddenly Mello is very much in Matt's face._

"_Yes. I mean, no. I mean-"_

"_Shut up, scheisskopf."_

Two days after my promotion I give the order to move into the Carusso turf. The takeover is swift, the looting more so. In a week, the territory is ours.

I set fire to everything else owned by Benedikt.

Matt doesn't attend the burning.

This, if nothing else, brings a little satisfaction.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

"_Hey Matt?"_

"_Yes, Consigliere Mello?"_

"_Quit it, __dummkopf__."_

"_Your __dummkopf__."_

"_Vain bastard."_

"_Look who's talking, Mr. Angel Hair."_

"_I will gun your balls."_

"_I'll hack your ass off."_

"_Gago__."_

"_Baka."_

_"Asinine."_

_"Ooh, scary vocabulary."  
><em>

_Silence._

"_So what were you going to say, Mello?"_

_Mello looks at Matt, lying on the bed, head dangling off, blood rushing to what little forehead Mello can see. With his oversized striped shirt, Goomba-print boxers, swim goggles and Gameboy color, Matt looks like an overgrown kid. But the scars – at least, the ones Mello's seen, because Matt never takes his shirt off in front of Mello, not like back at Whammy's – and the gun always within arm's reach tell Mello a different story._

"_Mello?"_

_Mello looks at Matt and tries to remember what he wanted to say. You're my best friend, you know that?, or maybe, You're a good friend, Stripes, or even, I'm glad I have you to come home to. Because yes, Matt is Mello's best friend – Mello's only friend, really, in this harsh world of crime and competition. Matt is the only non-threat, the only constant, the only one genuinely caring, something Mello realized on the day of Benedikt's death._

_Matt's always taken care of him. Whammy's to Mafia, the only person who's still around and kicking is Matt._

_Mello wonders when he started getting so sentimental._

"_Never mind," he mutters, eventually, though Matt hasn't broken the silence again. The gamer frowns but nods and resumes his game. Mello sighs and laces his boots, prepping to go back to base and shoot at a couple dozen things to work off his frustration at himself._

I find myself once again looking at Matt dangling his head off the bed, tongue poking out as he tilts his PSP right and left, presumably playing NFS. Three cigarette butts lie beneath his downturned hair, one still smoking slightly. I contemplate telling him, or using the PSP to grind out the smoke, but in the end I just trudge to the shower. If the retard sets himself on fire, he damn well deserves it.

Sure enough, as I shampoo my hair, there's a creak and a yelp.

"Dumbass," I mutter, chuckling.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Being a Mafia Consigliere – excuse the pun – is boss. Absolute boss.

I can send these bastards anywhere. I can make them do anything. I can literally blueball them if I want to, because they've got to listen to _me._

Me. Mello. The crazy, genius kid who just got his Mafia's name painted all over Los Angeles in just one year.

_Your capability to think in many ways – even like a criminal – is a useful asset._

Damn right it is, L.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

A month later we move apartments. The place is roomier, cleaner, though still fairly low-key. But it's enough for me, and it's enough for Matt.

Matt. The one person who doesn't listen to me is Matt. Guaranteed, he isn't a full-time employ of our Mafia, but you'd think as my friend he'd be a little more inclined to helping me when I need it. Like now, for instance.

"Matt?" I'm standing in the doorway of the bedroom; he's sprawled out on the couch, one foot on the floor. His laptop balances precariously on his tummy. By the looks of the screen, he's hacking.

He is also not paying attention to me.

"Matt."

_Click, click._

"_Matt._"

_Clackety-clack._

I weigh my options – anger or teasing? There's always asking nicely, but I didn't get where I am today by being nice. I'm going to empty Los Angeles of its bullets if I keep gunning him whenever he pisses me off, so that leaves me with…

"Maaaaattie."

He starts up so fast his laptop almost goes flying. I chuckle as he scrambles on the couch, trying to get away from my lips, which moments ago were right next to his ear. I do wonder why Matt takes these things so badly.

I also wonder why I enjoy doing this to him so much, but let's push that thought from my head.

"W-what?"

The red splotches on his cheek darken and multiply as I crawl onto the couch and over to him. I'm not the sexiest of people – I'm skinny as a pole with no ass to speak of – but I've learned to use what I've got. I never slept with someone for power but a little seduction can go a long way.

"M-Mello…?"

I think somewhere deep down I feel a tad bit guilty for making him so obviously uncomfortable, but a guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do to get things done.

"You weren't paying attention," I purr, inching closer to him. He's crammed himself into the corner between the backrest and the armchair, laptop clutched in his skinny arms. He's gone paler than a ghost but for his blush. Objectively – note that word – his flustered self is somewhat cute.

"I am now?" Jesus, what is it about being seduced that sets this guy on the edge so much? It's just a little teasing and it's all in good fun. It doesn't mean anything.

"Goooood." I put my hands on his shoulders, use them to pull myself up. The second our eyes are level my smile flips off, quick as a wink. "Hack the Japanese Police Force."

"Why?"

Sometimes Matt and his intelligence are my saving grace from the stupidity of the Mafia underlings. Other times they're a curse. God, Matt, do you need to know everything?

"Because it'll help me catch Kira."

"Bu-"

"Do it, Matt." I lean in until he goes cross-eyed to my face. My lips ghost the skin right next to his lips. "Or I'll make you."

"Okay." His voice is so small and breathless he's practically just exhaling instead of talking.

"Good." I slide off the couch. "You'd better be in when I get home."

"Yes, Master."

And just like that, the attitude is back.

**xxxxxxxxxx  
>xxxxxxxxxx<strong>

Mello's lips had been so close.

_Fuck_.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

Over the next few months I hack into the files of the Japanese Police Force. I tap their surveillance tapes. I listen to their wires. I dig up all their case files. Once, in a daring coup, I breach their financial accounts and reroute them all so that they pass through my system first before going wherever it is they go. I keep tabs on every Kira update, no matter how small. I turn everything I learn over to Mello in an innocuous little flash drive with a Goomba printed on it. Mello devours the information like chocolate.

Kira is in Japan. Kira in involved with the Japanese police. Kira has got to be stopped.

The words are like a mantra for Mello.

I get paid in cigarettes and games and the occasional wad of money. It's contenting enough, though I miss the days of my drugs. Nothing like a smack high to get you through a bounty hunt.

To add to the list of things I have never told Mello: going cold turkey.

At least I kept my fucking cigarettes.

"_Since when did you start smoking anyway?"_

_Matt's response is to light another of his "cancer-inducing leaf-rolls," as Mello calls them on occasion, and to off-handedly comment, "after I left."_

"_No, really? I hadn't thought of that."_

"'_Course you didn't, blondie."_

_Suddenly the cigarette's gone from between Matt's lips. Mello slips it between thin lips, takes a drag. Matt's eyes follow the Cupid's bow as it rises and contracts. Then Mello's leaning forward and a nicotine scent rushes through Matt's head as smoke is exhaled just inches from his mouth._

_If Matt hadn't forgotten how to breathe, he might have coughed._

"_Smoke outside from now on, dipshit." A voice as steely as the gun tucked into his waistband. It's not until the cigarette's slotted into his loose fingers and Mello's halfway out the door before Matt thinks to wonder when Mello himself started smoking. He's never seen his friend light up, ever._

"Mattie?"

"Shit!" That voice had come out of nowhere. My fingers slip on the Xbox controller and – fuck. Christy's been KO'd.

Hands wrap around my waist before I can scramble away or get pissy.

"Maaaaaaaaattie?"

"Jesus Christ, Mello, would you stop doing that?"

"Doing what?" By now Mello's scooched his way around so half his body is still behind me, arms around me, eyes blinking innocently up at mine. I don't take my goggles off anymore, not even to play – only in the shower and bed – because something about Mello makes me feel the need to be guarded.

"Touching me!" Irritated, I make to shove his hands away but he just locks them tighter.

"Can I not hug my friend?"

"Get the _fuck _off me!"

"Why are you being so prissy abou-"

"I said _get off!_"

My elbow connects with his shoulder bone before I can think. His screech of pain renders me momentarily guilty but it gets him off me so all is good.

Or all is good until his fist decides to say hello to my face.

**xxxxxxxxxx  
>xxxxxxxxxx<strong>

Matt's rejection hurt more than I thought it would.

I leave off the teasing after that, and Matt does what I ask more often.

I sleep alone on the bed more often.

I'd say it was just like back at Whammy's, anyway, except the couch is much further away than his bean bag had been.

Matt doesn't snuffle in his sleep anymore.

**xxxxxxxxxx  
>xxxxxxxxxx<strong>

I know Mello's planning something big because he stalks through the apartment door without a chocolate bar in hand or mouth. It's been almost five years since we both left Whammy's. Mello's spent that time working to get into a position wherein he controls the largest and strongest Mafia in the state, and can subsequently use said Mafia to take down Kira. I have spent that time gaining and losing 5 pounds, on and off, smoking myself half to death, and training my fingers for the Typewriting Olympics, should someone choose to start one.

"Matt."

He hasn't touched me since that fight years ago, but I'm careful to never give him the opportunity. Still, I can't stop him as he throws his arms around me for a surprising hug, his face smushed into my collar.

I can't stop him, or I don't want to.

"Mells…?"

Abruptly he shoves me away, his hair whipping out as he turns around. It's gotten long again, his angel hair.

_As kids in Whammy's House – "why is your hair so long, Mello?"_

"_If you say anything about being a girl-"_

"_No!" A hurried cutoff, a hasty take-back. "Not that. Nothing like that! I just – I was just wondering. It's – it's pretty."_

"_Huh."_

_Rustles of pages, clicks of controller buttons. Crickets outside the bedroom window._

"_My mom." Flip, flip, flip. "She said it made me look like an angel."_

"It's starting, Matt."

"What is?"

"I'll need you full on board for this."

"For what?"

"Stock up on energy drinks and instant food. It's going to involve long work hours."

"Mello, what the _fuck _are you planning to do?"

"_We _are going to kidnap the director of the Japanese Task Force and hold him hostage in exchange for Kira's murder weapon."

"We?"

"We."

**xxxxxxxxxx**

_**A/N **__This chapter felt a little off to me. I'm not sure if it's because I feel I rushed through all those emotional developments or because it's so stagnant. Or both, maybe. Word-count wise, this chapter is shorter than the previous few; it's just around 2500. Seven pages, but that's mostly because of conversation._

_"Gago" is an insult in Filipino. "Baka" is Japanese for stupid, or idiot.  
><em>

_Do you guys ever find the PoV switches confusing?_

_Anyways, read and review, as always. Constructive criticism is always, always appreciated._


	18. The Second Time Around

_**A/N **I will have you guys know, I do not abandon fics. I've had enough bad experiences reading a fic through only to find out it's a WIP that hasn't been updated in years and likely won't be, ever again, and I've promised not to do that to my readers. However, I do realize it's been months since I last updated my fics, and for that I profoundly apologize._

_I honestly didn't mean to leave them for so long, but plenty of things happened: I failed my Physics class, my laptop got temporarily confiscated, I had to spend the summer focusing on my Calculus class to make up for my Physics grade, and my architectural design class has recently been assigned to design a school (an entire high school, can you believe?). Between all of that and a series of personal problems, I barely had time to myself, let alone write. I hope you will all forgive my prolonged absence, and will still read what I write now that I'm back._

_That being said, I'd like to tell you all in advanced that I won't be updating too frequently. I'd wanted to get my WIPs done over my summer vacation before my junior year, but the aforementioned things happened, so that was moot. Third year architecture is by far the most difficult of years over at my university, so it's likely I won't get time to write too often. So I apologize for that, too. I hope you guys can bear with, and still keep an eye on my work. I really love writing fanfiction, and you have all been wonderful readers, with all the reviews you send and the criticism you give. I've never wished to disappoint any of you, and I've got my fingers crossed that I haven't already._

_The kidnappings will only be referenced to in this chapter._

_And now that this long author's note is wrapping up, I am glad to announce, for the first time in positively **ages, **it is chapter time! Enjoy this update. Hope it doesn't disappoint!_

**xxxxxxxxxx**

From all the way in Los Angeles I tap through the surveillance cameras inside the Japanese Police building. I record every movement, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. When I find myself passing out Mello takes over the job with rigid determination. There have been so many times when I've woken up from a nap on the couch to see him sitting there, stiff and silent, staring stolidly at my laptop screen.

He barely eats, barely sleeps, and spends most of the day out in the Mafia. We've barely said six words to each other over the past days; I've long since stopped trying to make even just small talk with him.

"_Out again, Mello?" Matt asks as he watches Mello stomp around the apartment, looking for his other boot. Mello doesn't even spare him a glance as he bends over, skinny ass in the air, to check under the coffee table._

"_Have you tried the bedroom?" Matt volunteers, and again Mello just stands and trudges off to the bedroom. He emerges carrying the boot, looking not just a little disgruntled. The loop of his gun holster is badly tied and the gun starts sliding down his thigh._

"_Your gun's slipping." By now Matt's words are half-hearted; he's starting to sense that Mello's too wrapped up in whatever's going on in his head to really pay attention to him. His fingers tap out a few more strings of code awkwardly, brokenly, before he snarls under his breath in exasperation and begins to root around the couch for a cigarette._

_Nearby, Mello's fumbling with the tie of his holster loop. His fingernails can't seem to pick apart the knot properly, and so he growls and rips the whole thing off, yanking the gun out and simply stuffing it down his pants._

"_Didn't think anything could fit in those things, the way they cling to you," Matt taunts, a little desperately, trying to get a rise – to get anything from his friend – but the only reply that comes his way is the little gust of wind from the door slamming shut._

"_Nice talking to you too," Matt mutters, his fingers once again flying over the keys. He hears the roar of Mello's motorbike outside and rolls his eyes._

**xxxxxxxxxx**

The kidnapping goes off without a hitch – or so we think. They get the director, the Japanese Police force goes into a panic, and we offer the trade for the Note.

The Note.

I remember my first reaction, back at Whammy's, when I first discovered its existence. It had showed up in Watari's files (when I still had access to them) as Kira's MO – a notebook wherein you write someone's name and that person dies. It had seemed entirely too fanciful, fictional, magical, back then; it didn't fit in with L's cold, calculating logic. But the proof piled up along with the video feeds until I had no choice but to believe it was true.

The Death Note existed. And Kira had been using it to kill.

Mello had been marginally more accepting of the facts. Or, at least, it had taken him a lot shorter a time to come around.

As soon as he'd acknowledged it as the murder weapon, his mind began spinning tangents on its use, connecting it to the happenings in Japan. The existence of a second Kira. The strange out-of-rhythm deaths. The sudden lack of them. Their sudden resumption. L's death. It all boiled down to two conclusions.

One, Kira had been a member of the special task force put up to stop him.

And two, the new L was likely Kira.

The new L. Ah, that had been a blow to Mello's ego. He'd locked himself up for three days straight after that first intercepted phone call between the new L and Near.

"_Mello?" Matt knocks on the door to Mello's room, not hoping much for an answer. It's day two of Mello's self-imposed isolation and Matt hasn't heard a peep out of the boy. He sighs, lifts a hand to knock again, but puts it down without a second thought. The small tray of food he'd prepared – wishful thinking, really – lies at his feet. He nudges it toward the door with the toe of his boot. "I'm leaving food," he adds, then turns to leave. At the end of the corridor he hesitates, glances back – nothing. Pursing his lips, he trudges into the living room and boots up a laptop. Might as well use the relative peace to get some work done._

_But as Matt calls up the codes and begins to breach the first bank account, he finds he's more than a little distracted by the quiet of the apartment. He'd thought it might be a relief, going for a time without gunshots or ranting or the snaps of a chocolate bar being devoured. Instead, it surrounds him, suffocates him like a wet rag to the nose. Mello – bright and blazing Mello – takes up all the space when he's in a room, all explosive personality and leather-clad sass. It takes the quiet for Matt to realize Mello does the same in his head._

_His fingers stutter over the keys and he nearly costs himself the entire hack as the thought hits him._

_Well, fuck._

Mello's just finalized the details for the potential exchange when the word comes that the Japanese director's dead – apparent suicide, hung himself from the rafters. I wait for Mello to fly into a rage, fire or kill the negligent _idiots _who let it happen. But instead his eyes take on an eerie glow and he grins wildly. A short trip to the kill site later and he's got it all. The existence of a second Note. The trick Kira used. The way it so neatly proves that Kira is, indeed, in the special force.

His next move is to kidnap the Chief of Police's daughter, Yagami Sayu.

This shakes up the works so much they actually agree to the exchange. Her father, Chief Yagami, does the exchange. The custom modes of transport – and man, did I have fun arranging those – deliver the Note to the designated drop-off, then Mello himself brings it back to his hideout.

The Death Note. Is in the hideout.

There is a glint in Mello's eyes as he holds the Note in his hands that I've never witnessed before, and it unnerves me beyond measure. It is fire, a dangerous fire, the kind that will raze everything in its path until there's nothing left. Not even itself.

**xxxxxxxxxx  
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"Matt?"

"Mm?"

"I need you to set up a detonation pattern for me."

"No."

The speed at which Matt responds catches me off-guard. It's almost as if he's had the answer right there at the tip of his tongue, just waiting to be used. Though I suppose he's prepared for anything at this point, after I actually asked him to coordinate a fucking missile launch and make it untraceable. But he did _that _for me, so "why the bloody fuck not? It's not like you haven't done worse."

"I said no, Mello."

"I haven't even said where and why. Couldn't you at least wait for those before answering?"

"I could but the answer would still be no, so why waste our breaths?"

"Now listen here, Jeevas – I'm the Mafia boss here and-"

"And I know you know who I am, so we're at something of a stalemate." He inhales from his cigarette roughly, teeth grating down on the filter. This is subtle-Matt-speak for 'I'm starting to get pretty pissed over here so stop it or you might actually get me to snap and believe me that will not be pretty' but I choose to ignore the message.

"So help me, Matt, if I have to hold you at gunpoint, then I-"

"You'll never shoot, Mells," he counters, easily, almost lazily, even, and _fuck _he may be a brilliant, sexy bastard but he's a bastard nonetheless and he's pissing me the fuck off. This is integral to my plans – we all need backups, even L did – and he _goddamn won't help me?_

The Beretta's in my palm and the trigger's going off before I can even register my actions. Luckily, the irrational and angry part of my brain didn't think to hit a vital part.

Still, that arm wound has to be pretty fucking painful.

"What the fuck, Mello?" Matt screams, clutching at his upper arm in agony. Blood seeps through his fingers even if they're so tightly clenched around his skin they're practically a tourniquet. He tips from his chair and cries out and in that moment I'm guilty. I didn't want to shoot him – I still don't – but _I need to do this _and _he won't help me_. I don't want to force him but what else can I do?

"What was it you were saying again, _Mattie_?" There's a sneer in my voice but I can't bring myself to look fully at his pale face. The blood seeps through his shirt, staining white stripes red.

"No I goddamn fucking well will _not _help you!" he manages to get out through gritted teeth as he forces himself to stand. He's level with me now, but I can't read him worth a damn shit because of those fucking _goggles. _I'd shoot them off his head but I'm scared I'll miss. And kill him instead.

I make do with stomping over him and collaring him against the wall. "Well why the bloody well not?"

"No." He glares back at me, defiant. My elbow is jamming against his so his grip on his arm isn't as tight as before and the blood leaks between us. I feel it, warm on my skin.

The gun cocks and moves to his temple. My voice dips low and dangerous. "That isn't an answer, Matt."

"It's all the answer you'll need, _Mihael._"

That little shit-!

The gun spins in my hand and the butt comes down on his head, hard. Or I mean it to, but he uses the momentary loosening of my grip to duck out from under my arms. I carry my momentum and turn a full 180 but he's already back by the couch, death grip on his bleeding arm.

"Goddamn it, Matt, you _will _do as I say, do you hear?" The crack of the gun echoes through our apartment, the bullet just missing his other shoulder. But he doesn't flinch.

No, instead he explodes.

"I goddamn WILL NOT be your goddamn MURDERER!" he shrieks, finger stabbing the air to prove a point. The blood's still flowing freely from his arm – I wonder how he's still standing – but he ignores it in favor of cussing me out. "So fuck you and fuck what you say. I fucking REFUSE to be responsible – to have ANYTHING to do with your goddamn death if you fucking decide to fucking BLOW YOURSELF UP!"

He staggers back a little on those last words, his face bone white, but he forces himself to keep standing. It might have occurred to me to wonder how he knew the detonation would be a backup for me, a dramatic exit in case things went wrong, but the question isn't high priority in my mind at the moment. Because if I think I've seen Matt snap before, if I think I've seen him lose his temper, it's nothing on this. Not even close. His eyes are wide beneath the goggles and he's panting and his knees buckle little by little but out of sheer anger and stubbornness he keeps himself standing. He's bleeding out on his own floor but still he fights back.

And I just go and make things much worse.

"You never seemed to have a problem killing people before, you little bastard hypocrite."

He blanches. His face whitens even more, skin stretched across his cheekbone as his face pinches, obviously stung. He honestly thinks I don't know about his other jobs – that I don't know he was more than a hacker? I'm the fucking boss of a Mafia, Matt. If I want to know something, I'll know.

"You're the one who kills without a goddamn thought."

It ought to be my turn to flinch but I don't. I'm too stubborn to drop this fight. I'm too used to people backing down at my first signs of aggression. Matt, loyal Matt who's done so much for me so willingly, is fighting back, and it's pissing me off. I feel the compulsive need to break him, just like I've broken all the other Mafia renegades.

"So did it bother you, then, getting Connor killed?"

And that amps up his fury like nothing I've ever seen. I've more than touched a nerve; I've gone and banged a hammer on one of the deepest parts of his heart. Matt's barely told me anything of his life before we met back up, but I knew Connor and I was there when he was killed, shot down for fucking another guy and hiding the world's most wanted hacker in his living room. I hadn't known it was Matt then but I sure as hell knew now.

When I'd realized, I'd wondered – had Matt known I was there? Had he known ever since I'd joined up? How long had he waited, biding his time, before deciding he might try and talk to me? _Why _had he waited?

And had that guy Connor was fucking – had it been – Matt?

"Fuck you." There are a million and then some things he could have said to me right now, but those two words speak volumes anyway, and they're loaded with a hatred and a pain whole sentences would not have had.

"Is that what he did to you?"

My mocking remark is the last straw. A soda bottle smashes right by my ear, the shards catching my face and scratching me. Thank god I closed my eyes at the last second. When I've recovered, though, Matt's slamming the door of the bedroom shut. I hear the ominous click of the lock.

For an instant, I feel fear beyond any I've felt in this business, because a locked door and a discomposed Matt remind me far too much of that night back at Whammy's, when he'd left without a word. I run forward, press my ear to the door, but all I hear is silence – which is somehow even worse. I've never needed to hear those clicks and profanities more desperately than now.

I know I ought to apologize, because what I said was so far below the belt, the depths of hell have nothing on it, but I can't. He decided to fight back, say no – he was the one who refused me. He knew how much I needed his help – how much it killed me to need his help in the first place, because I was Mello and I never needed anyone, he was the exception. And he was the one who left me.

Anyway, the window of the room is up far too high and Matt's not athletic enough to monkey-swing his way down the rotted, disjointed fire ladder. He won't leave.

I make myself as comfortable as I can on the couch – not much, since there's no pillow and no blanket and no Matt – and drift into a restless sleep. I ought to be keeping watch, or something, but I go ahead and convince myself he won't and can't leave.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

The open bedroom door, neatly made bed, and half-empty closets and desks the next day prove me very, very wrong.

For the second time in my life, there is no Matt.

For the first time, though, it's all my fucking fault.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

_**A/N **So, did that make up for the absence? It's a shortish chapter, unfortunately, and I'm nervous that I've lost the tone of the story and the plots gone all askew. I'd written excerpts of this chapter the same day I'd written the previous one, but it's only now I've filled in the gaps and completed it, so I'm worried the intervening time might have affected my writing. Constructive criticism will be very, very welcome, and I'll edit and adjust as I can. If anyone actually reads this._

_Oh look, there are my insecurities again. Ah, bah. I'll write for whoever's still out there and reading._

_Will try to update soon, but as said in the first A/N, no guarantees. Still, reviews wouldn't be amiss in boosting my urge to write. Haha!_


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